


Don't You Forget About Me

by FrancisWilloughby



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - The Breakfast Club Fusion, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2019-11-24 06:24:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18162458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancisWilloughby/pseuds/FrancisWilloughby
Summary: High school seniors Armie Hammer and Timothée Chalamet meet during Saturday detention. One of them is a badass troublemaker who fucks around, sneaks out at night, gets high a lot and frequently finds himself serving out his disciplinary sentence in the school library on the weekend. The other is a nerdy virgin who has never broken school rules before or defied his parents. The sparks (and the high school fic tropes) fly!This is complete fiction.





	1. Saturday Detention

**Author's Note:**

> The Breakfast Club is my favorite teen movie of all time and when this idea came to me last night, I had to write it! I've read a lot of Charmie stories and I don't think I've come across one based on the movie before (please correct me if I'm wrong!). I don't anticipate this one being super long (assuming anyone is interested in reading it), but the timeline will go beyond just the Saturday detention. 
> 
> Thanks to cumpeachx who encouraged me to write more and lookingforatardis who inspired my current high school AU obsession. (If you think this is terrible, please know that they're not responsible for the content at all!)

Tim strides into the library at 7:58 a.m., exactly two minutes later and he would have punched his ticket for another Saturday stuck at school with a bunch of losers he’d never even acknowledge on a regular day.

He doesn’t give a fuck. They’re lucky he showed up at all. 

Heavy, black lace-up boots, dark-wash skinny jeans, light pink cashmere hoodie under a navy blue leather bomber jacket. Sunglasses and baseball cap. He pauses, slurps his large coffee and surveys the room.

Pale, blonde girl swathed in layers of thrift store black with thick rings of kohl around her piercing blue eyes. Muscle-bound bro in a letterman jacket. Skinny chick with a spray tan wearing a slinky off-the-shoulder red sweater. Tim recognizes her — Liza? Lisa? — as one of the crew of rich bitches who think they run the school. She’s passably pretty in a way that probably doesn’t survive the nightly sloughing off all the expensive shit on her face. But if the rumors he’s heard about her are true, it doesn’t really matter. When she’s on her knees in the dark with her mouth full of cock, who gives a fuck what she looks like? 

Out of the corner of his eye, Tim sees one last guy pulling a binder and hefty textbook from a backpack. He places his stuff on the table, meticulously lines up the corners and lays out two sharpened No. 2 pencils and a ballpoint pen. Blue eyes, close-cropped, sandy-brown hair that could use some product, denim jacket, faded burgundy polo and — although he can’t see his lower body— Tim would bet on khakis. Boring-ass nerd.  

They’re all watching him curiously except BJ Girl, who’s feigning indifference and digging through her Chanel purse. Tim sits next to her, leans back precariously in his chair and loudly plops his feet on the table. Although she still doesn’t look at him, she instinctively raises one manicured hand and smooths back her tight ponytail. Smirking, Tim thinks that if he gets his dick sucked before the day is over, this detention won’t be a total waste of time after all. 

The door to the library swings open and in oozes nobody’s fave, Vice Principal Thomas Runyon. Walmart sales rack polyester-blend slacks, boxy blazer, crew neck sweater stretched tightly over his gut, permanent sneer on his homely face. 

“Good morning delinquents,” he growls. Without even glancing in Tim’s direction he adds, “Chalamet, feet off the table, all four chair legs on the floor, sunglasses and hat off.” 

Grimacing, Tim does as he’s told, blinking under the bright lights and pushing a hand roughly through his long, chestnut curls. He’d been up most of the night smoking weed and fucking. He snuck out of Jason’s bedroom around 4 a.m. and into his own 15 minutes later. Got up in just enough time to take a quick shower and make it to school. Without coffee he’ll be flat on his ass by lunch time. He hopes Runyon will let it slide for once. 

The vice principal puts on a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses and holds up a clipboard. 

“When I call your name, raise your hand. Elizabeth Chambers!” 

BJ Girl smiles brightly, revealing a mouthful of perfectly straight, too-white teeth. Runyon leers at her and Tim wonders what she did to earn a spot in Saturday detention. _Maybe she got caught sucking off one of the idiot football players in the locker room._

“Nick Delli Santi!” 

Tim glances around and sees the jock raise his hand. His name doesn’t sound familiar, but Tim doesn’t give a fuck about any school sports except the boys’ varsity basketball team because Jason is the starting point guard. And honestly, he barely cares about those dumbasses. 

“Armand Hammer!” Runyon pronounces it like the baking soda, making Tim snort. 

The nerdy kid tentatively raises his hand. “Uh, it’s Ar _mand_ actually, with the accent on the second syllable,” he mumbles. 

Runyon pins him with a withering glare. “Whatever you say, Hammer. What’s all that stuff on your table?” 

“Oh, just my notes, graphing calculator and calculus textbook. Since we’re here for the full day, I figured I’d make good use of my time and tackle my homework and maybe do some extra credit problems,” he rattles off excitedly. 

Swallowing a mouthful of lukewarm coffee, Tim winces. _Rookie move, Baking Soda Boy._  

“This isn’t study hall, Hammer,” Runyon begins, shaking his head. “You’re not here to make good use of your time. You’re here to think about what you did and how you plan to change your behavior. Put it away.” 

Blushing a deep red, the kid slides his things back into his bag. 

“Say-or-see Ronan!” 

“It’s pronounced _Ser_ -sha,” she deadpans. Her face remains impassive. 

Runyon just nods at her. 

“And last, but not least, my regular guest Timothée Chalamet. If you keep this up, Tim, we’ll have to engrave your name on one of the chairs. Maybe if your parents make a generous donation, the school board will consider naming the whole library after you!” Runyon’s braying laugh echoes in the quiet space. 

Tim flashes a shit-eating grin, but beneath the table he’s flipping off the obnoxious asshole. 

“OK, Chalamet knows the drill, but for the rest of you, these are the rules. You’re here until 4:30. You don’t leave this room without my permission. You are to sit here quietly. No reading, no talking, no sleeping,” he looks pointedly at Tim. “Now, bring me your phones.” 

One by one, the chastened teens shuffle up to the front and drop their devices in Runyon’s wicker basket. 

“Good. In the unlikely event of an emergency, Chalamet knows where my office is. Otherwise, I’ll be back to check on you in two hours. Happy Saturday!” 

Whistling, Runyon turns and heads for the door, letting it slam behind him. Immediately, Tim turns to BJ Girl. 

“So, Elizabeth is it? May I call you Liz?” he simpers.

“Liz is fine,” she smiles tightly. 

“I’m Timmy,” he says, politely extending his hand. 

“Um, hey guys, I don’t think we’re supposed to be talking,” the nerdy kid stage whispers from across the aisle. 

Tim whirls around. “No one is talking to you Baking Soda Boy, so I suggest you just sit over there and mind your fucking business,” he hisses. 

The kid blanches. 

“Hey bro, there’s no need to talk to him like that!” the jock, Nick, calls out from his spot a few tables away. He gets up and moves closer to the others. “Look, Armand is right —”

“Armie,” the kid interjects. 

“ — Armie, OK. Runyon told us to keep quiet,” Nick finishes, looking to Liz for back up. She shrugs. 

“Don’t get your jockstrap in a twist, son. I’ve been here more times than you can probably count up to. Runyon doesn’t give a fuck what we do in here as long as we don’t try to burn down the school and we stay out of his way. We can talk or do other stuff,” Tim waggles his eyebrows suggestively at Liz, who scowls. 

“Yeah, well … try to keep it down,” Nick says. “Maybe you like being here every fucking weekend, Chalamet, but I’m planning on this being my one and only.” 

“Whatever, man.” Tim waves him away and turns his attention back to Miss Sucks-a-Lot. “So, Liz?” 

“No offense, Timmy, but I don’t want to get in trouble either. Maybe we should all just be quiet for a little while,” she suggests. “Until we’re sure Vice Principal Runyon won’t come back in?” 

Tim huffs. He sees the blow job slipping through his fingers. Or legs. 

“OK, that’s probably not a bad idea,” he says agreeably. He moves to the table behind Baking Soda Boy and pulls his covert Saturday detention phone from his jacket pocket.  

 **Timmy:** you awake? 

 **Jason:** barely, what time did you leave?

 **Timmy:** around 4. what’re you doing? 

 **Jason:** still in bed 

 **Timmy:** bored as a motherfucker rn. send me a pic. 

Jason shoots the photo so it shows his toned abs, the outline of his hard cock clearly visible through the thin gray sheet draped just below his hip bones. 

 **Jason:** thinking about you 

“Fuck,” Tim whispers. Or he thought he whispered. Apparently, he spoke loudly enough for the nerd to overhear him. 

Turning around, Armie seizes the opportunity to take a good, long look at Tim — golden-green eyes, moles and freckles sprinkled liberally over smooth, alabaster skin, strong jaw, rosy lips. 

“Did you say something to me?” he croaks hopefully.

Tim rolls his eyes. _Jesus, this kid needs to get off my dick_. “Still not fucking talking to you Baking Soda Boy.” 

If Armie responds, Tim doesn’t hear him. He’s too busy and distracted typing another text to Jason, telling him to pull down the goddamn sheet.  


	2. Vaping in the Boys' Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim and Armie spend some not-so-quality time together. The vice principal has a surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the kudos and comments (I promise I'll answer)! I'm happy you all like badass!Timmy. 
> 
> Here's a shortish chapter in honor of the 35th anniversary of the detention depicted in The Breakfast Club -- March 24, 1984. (Thanks for the heads up isitandwonder!) 
> 
> I'm using the movie's premise, but deviating from the plot and some character backstory. For example, Tim is our John Bender, but he's not from an abusive home (I would never do that to the fictional Chalamets!). A lot of you want Tim to be nicer to Armie, well it's kind of a half step forward, two steps back in this one.

Tim checks the time on his phone again, sees it’s only 9:10 a.m., and decides he can’t wait for Runyon to return. The coffee is helping him stay awake, but it also flowed right through him like a fucking river and now he has to piss. 

He glances around at his fellow detainees — the goth girl is picking her bloodied cuticles; the jock is tossing one of those foam balls you squeeze to relieve stress up in the air; BJ Girl is going through her make-up bag trying different lipsticks (all that exaggerated lip pursing is making Tim’s dick twitch); he can only see Baking Soda Boy from behind, but it looks like he’s just sitting there obeying the rules like a lame-ass, goody-two-shoes and lightly drumming his fingers on the table. 

Sighing, Tim thinks this group is even more pathetic than the usual crop of misfits he finds himself stuck with on Saturdays. 

“Hey, I’m going to the restroom,” he announces, rising to his feet. “Who’s coming with me?” 

Holding a coral lipstick in one hand and a compact in the other, Liz looks up from her reflection with furrowed brows. “We can’t leave the library without Runyon’s permission.” 

“I’m not asking that prick if I can take a piss,” Tim scoffs. 

“Are you serious?” Nick asks incredulously. “You’d rather risk getting all of us in trouble?” 

“Listen, Santigold—” Nick glares at him —“his office is in the opposite direction of the john, so it’s actually more efficient to do it my way. So, any takers?” 

Tim rubs his hands together, looking around eagerly. Just in case Runyon is prowling the halls and intercepts them, he’d rather have an accomplice to share the blame and the consequences. It will be a bonus if he can use this opportunity to get Liz away from the others, turn on the charm and lay the ground work for a little afternoon delight. It wouldn’t be the first time he got sucked off in the stacks during detention.

“I’ll come,” Armie says, raising his hand. 

_Of fucking course._

“I had orange juice and thirty-two ounces of water before I left home this morning,” he continues. “My mom says it’s important to stay hydrated and most people don’t drink enough water, you know. It can present a problem, though, since the average person needs to use the bathroom six to seven times per day, but if you drink a lot, like I do, your urinary frequency can increase to —” 

“First, you don’t have to raise your hand Baking Soda, we’re not in class,” Tim interrupts. “Second, that’s way too much fucking information. No one needs to know you have a tiny bladder. Let’s go.” 

* * * *

Armie lags a few steps behind Tim, who is swaggering down the wide hallway like he owns the place. He’s intimidated, but not by Tim’s physical presence — at six-foot-five Armie is taller than most kids at school. No, he’s flustered by how effortlessly cool and self-aware Tim is. How he speaks his mind without caring what people think or whether they like him. How he wields insults like blades, cutting to the quick and then, just before his victims bleed out, he turns the balm of his stunning eyes and toothy grin on them, soothing the pain even though he’s laughing at their expense.

Although they don’t have any classes together, he knows Tim by reputation— always at the wildest parties, with the hottest dates at his side and the best weed in his pocket. Up for anything, down to fuck. 

If Armie is being honest with himself, there’s another reason Tim makes him nervous. But Armie is never honest with himself, not about that.  

When he accidentally scuffs the sole of his New Balance sneaker across the waxed linoleum, causing a piercing squeak that bounces off the lockers lining the walls, Tim shoots an icy stare over his shoulder.

“Sorry,” Armie mumbles sheepishly.

They make it to the bathroom without crossing paths with Runyon. After relieving themselves at urinals set a respectable distance apart, Tim leans against one of the gleaming stainless steel sinks, crosses his feet at the ankles and pulls his vape pen out of his jeans pocket. 

Armie’s eyes widen. “Is that …” 

“Nah, it’s just that flavored shit. I’m not stupid enough to smoke weed at school … well not again anyway,” he grins. “Want to try?” 

When Armie shakes his head, Tim shrugs and takes a long pull, relaxing as the nicotine swirls through his bloodstream. 

“So, what’s the deal with your name?” he asks, exhaling a plume of lightly strawberry-scented vapor. When Armie looks confused, Tim clarifies, “Why did your parents call you Armand? Your mom into vampires? Don’t look so shocked, dude. My sister read those books, I know girls get off on the whole homoerotic blood-suckers thing.”  

“What? No! It’s a family name. There’s an Armand in every generation, not always the first name though.” 

“You drew the short straw, huh? That must fucking suck,” he chuckles. “People call you Armie?”

Shrugging, Armie stuffs his hands in the pockets of his khakis. “Yeah, it’s not as stodgy or, I don’t know, pretentious.”

“That’s why I go by Timmy or Tim,” he nods, inhaling deeply.

“Timothy isn’t so bad.”

He shakes his head, freeing the thick curls tucked carelessly behind his ear, “It’s actually Timothée. French dad.”  

“Oh. Yeah, I see what you mean.” 

In truth, Armie likes it. He’s studied French since middle school, loves the language, spent six weeks in France in an exchange program the summer before his junior year. He repeats Tim’s full name in his mind, admiring its rhyming symmetry. 

“Time to head back, Baking Soda,” Tim says, pushing himself off the edge of the sink. “Don’t wanna push our luck.” 

With his back already turned, Tim misses the disappointment that flashes across Armie’s face. After their conversation, he had hoped Tim would drop the mocking moniker and call him by his name. Armie sighs and follows him out the door. 

* * * *

When they return to the library, Nick is straddling the chair next to Liz, closely watching her swipe rose gold shadow over her eyelids. Saoirse still sits apart from them, hunched over the table, scribbling furiously in a black journal. 

“Miss me?” Tim calls out, arms raised triumphantly over his head.

Nick frowns when Liz smiles shyly at Tim, who winks.

“It’s a good thing you didn’t get caught.” 

“You still don’t get it do you, Santigold? You, a moron, probably would have stumbled right into Runyon. But me? I run this bitch,” he smirks. 

“Fuck you, asshole.” 

“Hard pass, son. You’re not my type.” 

In a flash, Nick is out of his chair and in Tim’s face. Although the other boy has a couple of inches and at least 25 pounds on him, Tim doesn’t flinch. He knows fighting would lead to suspension, rather than detention (and his parents would be _pissed_ ), still, Tim is fully prepared to use taekwando to take this dumb motherfucker down if need be. 

Armie starts towards the guys to try to defuse the situation, when the door opens and Runyon strolls in with a sheaf of papers in his hand. 

“Take your seats,” he barks, either willfully ignoring the tension in the room or too obtuse to pick up on it. “We’re going to try something new today, kids. Even Chalamet, on his many Saturday stays, hasn’t done this yet.” 

Smiling mischievously, Runyon hands out lined paper and pens. “You’re going to pair up for an oral exercise.” 

Tim snickers. 

Raising his hand again — apparently it’s a reflex when he’s on school property — Armie chimes in, “But there’s an odd number of us, sir.” 

Tim groans. 

“Thanks for the heads up, Hammer, but I can count,” Runyon snaps. “You’ll be in two groups. Your assignment is to interview each other and find out as much as you can about your partner, such as their home life, hobbies, interests, dreams, plans for the future. Favorite foods, books, movies, music. Things they don’t like. Special talents.” 

Tim grins lasciviously. 

“Keep it PG Chalamet. Now, how will I divide you up …” he pauses dramatically, tapping a stubby forefinger against his chapped lips. 

Both Tim and Nick inch their chairs closer to Liz. 

“Elizabeth and Delli Santi work together. That leaves Hammer, Chalamet and Ser-see.” 

“ _Ser_ -sha!” 

“Right. Take good notes because you each have to give a presentation about your partner before you leave this afternoon. Any questions?” 

“Yeah, why are we doing this?” Tim asks. 

“Because, Tim, sitting here twiddling your thumbs all day isn’t much punishment. Plus, I doubt any of you have spoken to each other before today. Get out of your comfort zone and learn something about someone who’s different.

“I’ll be back at noon to escort you to the vending machines.” 

When the library door shuts, Liz and a smug Nick move to a table on the far side of the room.

Tim is pretty sure that blow job isn’t gonna happen now. _Fuck_. 

Armie looks from Saoirse to Tim. “How should we decide who interviews whom?” 

“Since I don’t give a fuck, Baking Soda, why don’t you figure it out?” he snarls. 

Saoirse takes in Armie’s flushed cheeks, sagging shoulders and crestfallen expression and makes a decision. 

“I’ll interview Armie, Timmy will talk to me and Armie, you get Timmy. Let’s do this boys.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, our boys get to know each other.


	3. Talk Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saoirse is not here for Tim's bullshit. Armie sort of seizes the opportunity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though this story is set in the present, I've decided to name the chapters after 80s songs in honor of the film. (The title of the last chapter was a take on Motley Crüe's version of "Smokin' in the Boys Room") We start with "Talk Talk" by Talk Talk. Thanks to all of you who are reading and commenting!

“Why don’t you start by telling me about your family?” 

Saoirse and Armie sit facing each other on a plush green sofa arranged with other casual seating in the middle of the library. Tim, slumped down in an upholstered chair across from them with his booted feet up on a low table, is scrolling through Instagram on his back-up phone. 

He thinks this assignment is a fucking waste of time — he doesn’t want to know anything about these idiots and he sure doesn’t want to tell them anything about himself — so he plans to do the bare minimum. Just enough to keep Runyon off his ass and avoid a return trip the following Saturday.  

“Well, I live with my mom, she’s a software engineer, my dad, he’s a physicist, and my younger brother Victor, he’s a sophomore,” Armie says.  

Tim pulls his Yankees cap down lower on his forehead and rolls his eyes. _Nerds beget fucking nerds._  

“Are you guys close?” 

“Victor and I?” Saorise nods. “Not exactly. I mean, we get along and everything, but we have totally different interests.” 

“Like?” 

“Well,” he glances furtively at Tim, whose attention is still focused on his iPhone. “He plays sports — he’s on the junior varsity football team and the baseball team — and I’m not very athletic. I’m in a bunch of academic clubs, you know, like physics, Mathletes, debate —”

“Jesus, of course you are,” Tim mutters under his breath, but loud enough for them to hear.

Armie feels hot all over and the tips of his earns burn. Saoirse scowls in Tim’s direction, but he doesn’t see her since he’s swiping through photos from the party he skipped last night in favor of getting dicked down instead. From the look of things — there were too many kids he doesn’t like and not enough booze — he definitely made the right call. 

Armie nervously clears his throat and begins again. 

“Victor plays bass in a band with his friends. They’re actually pretty good, they’ve played open mic nights and even managed to get a few paying gigs. And, well, I’m first chair clarinet in the school orchestra. We play mostly classical pieces, although Mr. Sommers, he’s the band teacher, does throw in a pop hit every now and then. During the spring concert we did a pretty rousing rendition of ‘Smooth Criminal.’ Did you go?” 

Saoirse shakes her head with an apologetic smile. His shoulders slump. 

“Oh. Anyway, Vic’s super into video games and I prefer word games like Scrabble and Boggle. We’re just not very much alike,” he concludes, shrugging. 

“OK, so what do you like to do when you’re not at school?” 

“Read books, practice my music, watch movies, work on projects for the robotics club —”  

Tim snorts derisively. 

“I’m sorry, Timmy. Is there a problem? Are we bothering you?” Saoirse snaps. 

Armie’s gaze is focused on his clasped hands in his lap. If the floor opened up and swallowed him and the sofa, he wouldn’t mind.

Saoirse, however, is staring at Tim, her cold blue eyes boring into his. She’s giving off a serious don’t-fuck-with-me vibe that anyone else would find intimidating. Tim isn't fazed.

“Sounds like Baking Soda is the one with the problem. He spends most of his free time doing shit that’s related to school, which is a) lame and b) boring,” he shakes his head in disgust.

“Oh, and I suppose you have a million exciting things going on in your personal life, Timmy? I wonder how you find the time, since you apparently spend most of your Saturdays here, which is pretty boring _and_ lame, if you ask me. Don’t you agree, Armie?”

“I, well, I, don’t …” he stammers, wide eyes flitting back and forth between his partners. He feels perspiration blooming in his armpits and he’s glad he decided not to take off his denim jacket earlier.

“If you knew what I was doing last night you — ”

“Whatever. I don’t really care. Save it for Armie.” 

She turns back to Armie while Tim gapes at her open mouthed. _Who the fuck does this girl think she is?_

Armie isn’t sure whether he should thank Saoirse for sticking up for him or try to smooth things over with Tim, who goes back to ignoring them. He doesn’t get a chance to do either because she plows ahead with more questions. 

“Favorite book and movie?” 

“I don’t think I can choose just one! How about top three of each? _Howard’s End_ , _Lolita_ and _To Kill a Mockingbird_. _On the Waterfront_ , _All About Eve_ and —I’m cheating here — _The Godfather_ parts one and two,” he grins. 

Jotting down his responses on a sheet of binder paper, Saoirse nods approvingly. “I respect those choices. Where do you want to go to college? What do you want to study?” 

“Harvard, Yale or Stanford, but I don’t know if I’ll get in. I want to go to medical school, I’m thinking about specializing in epidemiology, and eventually work with Doctors Without Borders.” 

Tim keeps his mouth shut, but he’s listening. He’d never admit it, but sometimes he envies kids like Armie — straight A students who have their futures mapped out from college to career, for whom failure isn’t an option or even a remote possibility, whose parents proudly gush about their achievements to friends and colleagues. Tim chafes at authority, which is a problem in school where he’s expected to obey teachers and follow rules . His middling grades reflect his indifference and lack of effort, rather than his intellect. At this point, though, that doesn’t matter, he’s probably destined to attend the local community college. It accepts everybody.  

“Do you speak any foreign languages?”

“French and some Italian.” 

The words have barely left his mouth before Tim is rattling off rapid-fire French. Armie recognizes it for what it is, a challenge. And not an entirely fair one, since Tim has thrown in some regional dialect Armie recognizes from his time studying abroad. 

Tim expects Armie to ask him to repeat what he said, then deliver a halting response in a godawful accent, fully butchering the melodic beauty of his father’s native tongue. He and his older sister learned to speak French and English concurrently as children — practiced daily with their dad and refined during summers in France with their grandparents.

He might not know how to build a robot or split an atom (or whatever the fuck those geeks are doing in physics), but he can out-French anyone in this goddamn school, including Mademoiselle Blanchard. It’s the only class where he consistently earns an A. 

When Armie replies smoothly in complex sentences, sprinkled with advanced vocabulary and spoken with a better-than-average accent, Tim’s smug expression fades.  

“Fair play to you, Baking Soda,” he quips.  

Armie doesn’t see it because his eyes are fixed on the shelves of magazines just over Tim’s left shoulder, but Saoirse catches the small smile playing on Tim’s lips just before he dips his head and starts fiddling with his phone again. 

“Any special talents, Armie?” 

“Uh, I really love to cook. And … bake. Since my parents work long hours, I usually make dinner a couple times per week. I know that’s not, you know, very masculine or whatever,” anticipating a taunt, his eyes cut sideways at Tim, “but cooking is relaxing and fun. And baking is grounded in science.”  

“That’s cool. But don’t buy into sexist, heteronormative gender stereotypes. Cooking isn’t masculine or feminine, but it’s definitely a helpful skill to have. I can’t cook for shit!” she laughs. “Last question. Why are you here? I can’t imagine what _you_ possibly could have done to get Saturday detention.” 

Armie’s face clouds over, snuffing out the light that usually shines behind his clear blue eyes. “I’d rather not talk about it if that’s OK, Saoirse.” 

“Of course, you don’t have to,” she answers quickly, embarrassed to have caused him distress. She’s just started reviewing her notes when Tim speaks up. 

“I have a question.” He’s pushed his cap back, revealing green eyes twinkling with mischief. “Does your mom choose your clothes? Your dad? Or maybe you have to report for an evening shift at Target when we get out of here?” 

Wincing, Armie glances down at his usual outfit of a shapeless polo shirt and loose khakis. He runs his fingers lightly over the deep creases that have formed in his pants since he put them on that morning. “No, I pick my own stuff.” 

“Huh. Figures.” 

“Not everyone wants to spend a ton of money on designer gear, Tim,” Saoirse says, cooly appraising his outfit. Tim would be surprised by how much she knows about fashion, she’s had a subscription to Vogue since she was thirteen. She recognized his Berluti jacket the moment he walked in. 

“Clearly. You, for example, appear to be a fan of thrift store chic. A pity really,” he says, cocking his head to look her over, “since you might not be half bad Saoirse if you bought some decent clothes, tried a new hairstyle and traded in Robert Smith’s makeup palette for Rihanna’s. Maybe Liz can give you some tips before we leave. Anyway, you ready? It’s my turn to ask the questions.” 

He plucks a book, pen and a sheet of paper off the table and scrawls Saoirse’s name across the top. He spells it Sersha because that’s how it sounds and even though he’s fairly certain it’s incorrect, he doesn’t care enough to ask. 

“Let’s see,” he says with mock seriousness. “How often does your coven meet? Do you buy black eyeliner in bulk? Do you shop at Goodwill or those hipster boutiques that label smelly second-hand clothes ‘vintage’ and sell them for three times as much? Do you have any pets? I bet you have a black cat, don’t you? How long have you and your girlfriend been together? On Halloween, do you just wear your regular clothes and grab a hat and a broom?” 

“What the fuck?!” 

“Language, Saoirse. We are in school,” he smiles sweetly. 

“I’m not answering any of those questions. They’re ridiculous and offensive.” 

“But Runyon told us to get to know each other and these are the things I’m curious about. Just because you wasted your turn asking Baking Soda boring shit doesn’t mean I have to do the same.” 

“This is why no one likes you, Timmy.” 

“The fuck are you talking about? I’ve got plenty of friends, probably more than you, and friends with benefits. Best of both worlds,” he winks conspiratorially at Armie who stares at him in disbelief. 

“You probably think that since I’m not in with the popular cliques I don’t know anything about the social scene at this school, the pecking order,” she replies. “The thing is, Tim, because I like to keep quiet and observe, people tend to forget I’m there. So, they have these completely unguarded conversations when I’m in earshot since I’m invisible to them. And I’ve heard things Timmy, about you.” 

His smile falters a bit. “Like what?” 

“Not gonna go into it,” she waves her hand dismissively. “You should just know that fear and respect aren’t the same thing. That people sometimes pretend to be your friend — to be clear, I’m talking the universal ‘you’ here — because they want something from you, not because they actually like you. That sometimes when you think people are laughing with you, they’re really laughing at you. 

“As for your questions, obviously I’m not a witch, dumbass. I buy the value pack of basic Maybelline black eyeliners, the kind you have to sharpen. I only splurge on ‘vintage’ clothing if it’s something really cool I know I won’t find anywhere else. My cat is a Siamese. I also have a beagle. I don’t have a girlfriend or a boyfriend, by choice. On Halloween, I dress up like General Leia Organa, the baddest bitch ever to roam the galaxy, and hand out candy to the cute little kids who come to my house. I think we’re done here.” 

Saoirse shoves her notes in her beat up messenger bag, pauses briefly to squeeze Armie's shoulder and stomps to the front of the library, taking a seat at a table just as Runyon opens the door. 

Rattled by her cryptic outburst, Tim looks at Armie, who shrugs. 

“It’s lunch time delinquents! We’re going to hit the vending machines in the cafeteria and swing by the restrooms on our way back. Let’s go!” 

* * * *

As she does every Saturday he has detention, Tim’s mom packed him a turkey sandwich, chips and an apple, but the thought of food roils his stomach. He can’t stop thinking about what Saoirse said, or rather, what she didn’t say. He doesn’t give a fuck, not really, if people he barely knows are talking shit about him, but he’s curious if there are any traitors in his inner circle. 

He takes a long drink from a bottle of Sprite, hoping the crisp, lemony beverage will beat back the nausea. 

“Mind if I sit here?” Armie asks, resting his hand on the back of the chair beside Tim.

He grunts, noncommittal.  

“You didn’t bring a lunch?” 

“Not hungry.” 

“Oh.” He unwraps two large slices of the pepperoni pizza he and Victor ordered for dinner the night before and pops the tab on a can of Pepsi, slurping up the caramel-colored foam bubbling from the opening.

“So, I watched a show called _Derry Girls_ on Netflix last night. Have you heard of it?” 

Tim shakes his head, chugs more soda, burps loudly. 

“It’s about a group of teenage Catholic schoolgirls growing up in Northern Ireland during the Troubles.” He wipes a dollop of sauce from the corner of his mouth. 

“Why the fuck do you think I’d be interested in that?” 

“The ‘fair play’ thing?” 

Tim raises his eyebrows. 

“I thought maybe you were into Irish art or culture, that’s all.” 

“Well, I picked that up from a murder mystery set in Ireland, but I’m not watching a show about a bunch of girls.” 

“It’s really funny,” Armie smiles. “Anyway, what did you do last night?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Earlier, you said something about ‘if we knew what you were doing’ last night, so I’m wondering what you did,” he says, taking another huge bite. 

“I was high as balls, fucking a basketball player.”

Armie sputters and coughs, trying to swallow the mouthful of pizza that’s threatening to go down the wrong pipe. Tim slaps him repeatedly on the back, drawing the attention of the other students. Finally, Armie gets the food down. Ignoring the Pepsi, he picks up the water bottle he’s been sipping from all morning and drains it. 

“From the girls’ team?” he croaks, red-faced and watery-eyed.  

“Nope,” Tim leans back in his chair, clearly enjoying a flustered Armie. 

“It’s true then? What they say about you?”

“Depends. What do _they_ say?” 

“That you’re,” Armie looks around to make sure the others aren’t listening and lowers his voice, “bisexual?” 

“Yep. And you don’t have to whisper. It’s not a secret.” 

Tim studies him for a moment, noticing how Armie is fidgeting uncomfortably.  He’s not in the mood for any homophobic bullshit, especially not from a nerd who’s probably never gotten his dick wet— from lube, saliva or any other bodily fluid. 

Tim has been proudly out since tenth grade when he fucked the homecoming queen and the prom king during the same school year. Certain dudes give him shit, but he has zero tolerance, or time, for bigots. More often though,“straight” guys are trying to get in his pants. If they’re hot enough, sometimes he lets them. 

“You got a problem with that, Baking Soda?” 

“What? God, no! I don’t care about anyone’s sexuality. Love is love, right?” he smiles weakly. 

“Hmmm, right,” Tim murmurs, unconvinced. “You done eating so we can get this bullshit over with?” 

“Huh? Oh yeah, let me just …” he wipes his hands on a paper towel, crumples up the greasy aluminum foil and stuffs both into a paper sack with the empty can. 

“Should we stay here or go back where we were before?” 

Tim has a feeling the kid is going to ask him a bunch of invasive personal questions and he’d rather not have Liz and the jock in his business. “Let’s go back.” 

This time they both settle into adjacent armchairs. Armie sits sideways facing Tim, with one long leg tucked under the other and his back against the armrest. His binder is open to a clean sheet of paper and balanced on his lap. He’s been looking forward to this moment since Saoirse divided them into pairs, there’s so much he wants to know about Tim, but now he’s nervous and unsure how to begin. 

He lobs a softball. 

“Um, so you mentioned a sister. Is she older? Any other siblings?” 

“She’s finishing her last year at Barnard. Just the two of us.” Tim decides he’ll only answer the questions Armie asks, he’s not volunteering any extra information. 

“Are you in any school clubs?” 

Tim raises an eyebrow and looks amused. 

“I’ll take that as a no.” Armie pretends to take notes, stalling while he tries to come up with another question. 

Licking his lips, which suddenly feel dry, he glances longingly over at his empty water bottle. 

“Do you play any instruments?” 

Tim wasn’t expecting that one. “Piano … since I was six.” 

“Cool,” he grins, excited they have something else in common. “Do you compose?” 

Tim nods. “And transcribe.” 

Armie imagines Tim seated at the piano, disheveled mahogany curls tumbling over his forehead and into his face, slender fingers moving gracefully over the keys, eyes closed, swaying slightly as the music flows through him. He tucks the enticing vision away to revisit later. 

“Favorite book, movie and music. Or musical artist.” 

“ _1984_ , _The Dark Knight_ , hip hop and Kid Cudi.” Armie makes a note to look this guy up on Spotify. He spells it Cuddy. 

“What do you do in your free time?” 

Armie is so earnest and innocent, Tim wants to shock him. 

“Smoke weed. Fuck. Party. Drink. Think about smoking weed and fucking,” he ticks off on his fingers, chuckling when Armie blushes right on cue. _Definitely a virgin._  

“I’m fucking with you man! I mean, don’t get me wrong, I definitely do that shit, but my life isn’t that one-dimensional. I read a lot, practice taekwondo, sometimes I write, take photos — black-and-white film, not that digital shit, I have a darkroom — work. I’m not building robots in the garage, but I manage to keep myself busy,” he smiles. It’s the first one that seems genuine to Armie, that doesn’t feel like it’s masking ridicule. 

“Where do you work?” 

“At Café Jasmin, the coffee shop over on Webster. You know it?”

Armie nods. He doesn’t. He’s not a big fan of coffee, but he figures they must serve tea. He marks an asterisk next to the name.

“Do you know what you want to study in college?” 

Tim bristles, but tries to laugh it off. “Nah. Gotta make sure I graduate from this hellhole first.” 

Armie’s not sure what to make of that answer. Surely, Tim isn’t in danger of failing? 

Tim’s eyes are drawn to his phone when it vibrates with a text. 

 **Jason:** we hanging tonight? 

Suddenly feeling tired, he sighs and ignores it, turns his phone face down on the arm of the chair.

“So, the basketball player, um, he’s your boyfriend?” 

“Nyet. I don’t do relationships.” 

“Oh, I see,” he says quietly. 

Armie doesn’t understand hook-up culture or the desire for sex devoid of feelings and emotion. He’s not so naive to believe you have to be in love to sleep with someone, but it would be nice, he thinks, to know and like them at the very least; to plan on seeing them again, fully clothed, in the light of day.

“What about you?” Tim asks impulsively. “Girlfriend?” he pauses minutely, “Or boyfriend?” 

He throws out the second option on a hunch. He’s not certain Armie is queer — actually, he wouldn’t be surprised if the kid is still trying to figure it out. But Tim knows how to read the signs — Armie blushing when he talks to him and staring when he didn’t think Tim could see him.

He sizes Armie up the same way he did Saoirse — nice hair, but it needs styling, leanly muscular even though he says he’s not athletic (Tim wonders if he runs), ridiculously long legs, great teeth, cute smile and those eyes — the prettiest shade of blue he’s ever seen. With decent clothes — swapping the baggy khakis for tight jeans, the relaxed polo for a slim-fitting T-shirt, the awful sneakers for boots — he thinks the kid would be attractive. Maybe even hot. Too nice for him, though. Not enough edge. Tim’s first rule is he doesn’t do relationships, his second is that he doesn’t fuck with virgins. Figuratively or literally. 

He switches gears before a mortified Armie can answer. 

“How did you learn to speak French?” 

“I’ve been studying it since middle school and I spent most of the summer in France as part of an exchange program last year.”

“Where were you living?” 

“Angoulême. I had class four hours each day and lived with a host family.”  

“Well, don’t let this go to your head, but I’m impressed.”

“Thanks,” Armie beams.

“So, is that it?” Yawning, Tim stretches his arms above his head. His pink hoodie creeps up revealing a sliver of creamy skin and the waistband of his boxers.

“Uh,” Armie tries not to look, fails. “Yeah, I guess. Unless there’s anything you’d like to add?”

“Not a job interview, Baking Soda,” he retorts, but without the usual bite. 

He gathers his things and starts heading back up to the front of the library when Armie’s voice stops him. 

“Tim, would you mind … I mean, could you, maybe, not call me that anymore?” 

Although he’s not sure how he found the courage to speak, he holds the other boy's gaze without blinking. Holds his breath, too. Tim regards him thoughtfully.

“Sure thing, Armie,” he smiles widely. “Stop by the café sometime and I’ll even write it on your cup.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They made some progress!


	4. True Colors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie makes a play for Nerdiest Risk-taker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our chapter title comes from the incomparable Cyndi Lauper. Thanks so much for the positive response to this half-baked story idea, I really appreciate your comments and kudos!

By mid-afternoon, Tim is restless. He’s also annoyed. 

Jason is blowing up his phone asking if Tim wants to go to a party one of the cheerleaders is having — her parents are out of town and her older brother is home from college for the weekend, which means copious amounts of alcohol, the good shit, too, not the cheap swill they usually get from J&J Liquors, the only place in town that accepts fake ID. 

Ordinarily, Tim would be down, but he feels like Jason is getting a little clingy, that he’s starting to act like the two of them are a _thing_. As far as Tim’s concerned, they definitely aren’t and they never will be. Jason is cool to hang with and he’s a good fuck (the kid is well above average in size and stamina), but Tim’s not looking for a boyfriend or a homecoming date (he never goes to the actual dance, just hits up the after party). 

Tim thought they had an understanding and Jason accepted the ground rules, but he’s starting to have doubts. 

 **Jason:** look, it’s cool if you don’t want to go out 

 **Jason:** I know you didn’t get much sleep, so we can just chill at my place again

 **Jason:** ???

 **Timmy:** dude, i’m fucking beat. imma just stay home tonight.

 **Timmy:** see you monday 

He pockets the phone without waiting for a reply. Sighing, he looks around the library. Numb Nuts Nick is still trying to get in Liz’s designer jeans, but Tim can’t tell whether he’s making any headway. Meanwhile, Armie and Saoirse appear to be thick as thieves, whispering with their heads bent together over a tattered paperback. Watching them, Tim feels a twinge of something he can’t quite name, but he quickly dismisses it without interrogating the emotion. 

“OK, boys and girls!” Runyon barges in, speaking too loudly as usual. “Time for your presentations.” 

He drops heavily into a chair. 

“Elizabeth, you’re up first. Tell us about Mr. Delli Santi.”

Liz struts to the front, flips her highlighted ponytail over her shoulder and juts a bony hip.

“Nick is the eldest of four,” she begins, reading from a piece of notebook paper. 

Tim immediately tunes her out because he could not give fewer fucks. Instead, he doodles in the margin of his notes on Saoirse. Skimming the page, he momentarily regrets being so cavalier about the assignment, only because he’s not sure if Runyon will be pissy enough to make him return next Saturday for a repeat. 

The sound of polite applause pulls Tim out of his head. 

“Nice job, Elizabeth,” Runyon coos. “Nicholas?” 

Tim perks up. He might learn something that could come in handy in the future if he ever gets another opportunity to charm Liz onto her knees. Turns out, they have a few things in common — older sisters, an obsession with fashion, a taste for cheese pizza and an affinity for superhero movies, especially the MCU. Their differences, however, are enough to squelch any desire he felt —  she leans Republican, loves guns and reads Ayn Rand. Total boner killer. 

“Huh. OK.” Even Runyon seems nonplussed. “Saoirse?” 

Saoirse steps forward and clears her throat. 

“Armand ‘Armie’ Hammer is a modern Renaissance man — musician, scholar, linguist, chef, baker and orator. He plays first chair clarinet in the school orchestra, speaks fluent French and is learning Italian and Russian; whips up nutritious meals for his younger brother, Victor, bakes a mean blackberry cobbler, earns straight As and builds robots in his spare time. He’s president of Mathletes and the debate club, treasurer of the French club, founder of the robotics club and will probably win ‘most likely to succeed.’ He’s destined for the Ivy League, then medical school and an impactful career fighting the spread of infectious diseases in the developing world.” 

She looks up from her notes and smiles warmly at a blushing Armie, whose eyes are glued to a faded declaration of love written in permanent marker on the table. 

“In addition to his impressive academic achievements, Armie is sweet, kind and humble. In this age of unbridled cynicism, he’s optimistic, idealistic and empathetic. I can honestly say, I’m happy to have met him.” 

Although Tim thinks Saoirse laid it on a bit thick with the Renaissance man bullshit, he has to admit she didn’t exaggerate. Pretty much everything she said about the kid is true. 

“Well, sounds like you have an admirer, Armand. Your turn,Tim.” 

_I would have to follow that fucking verbal blow job._

“OK, so Saoirse likes Star Wars and thrift store clothes, has a penchant for eavesdropping, is the girl to see if you’re ever in need of a black eyeliner, is single by choice and hands out candy on Halloween.” 

He tugs on the drawstrings trailing down his chest, pulling the soft hood tight against the back of his neck. 

“Her house is probably pretty loud because she lives with a Siamese and a beagle, which is kinda ironic since she’s so quiet. She didn’t exactly say this, but I bet she would describe herself as a feminist — which is very cool, by the way,” he shoots Liz a reproachful look. “Oh, and don’t be fooled by the wardrobe, she swears she’s not a witch.” 

Saoirse glares at him. Nick snickers and Liz presses her glossy lips into a thin line. Armie gives him an encouraging smile. 

“That’s it?” Runyon blinks over the top of the glasses perched at the end of his nose.

“Like I said, she doesn’t talk much.” Tim shrugs and slides back into his chair.

“Mr. Hammer, please tell me you took this exercise more seriously than your partner did.” 

Armie shuffles forward. He briefly makes eye contact with Tim, whose expression is inscrutable. 

“Um, Timothée Chalamet is half French and he speaks the language beautifully.” 

He runs through the facts he learned about Tim, deliberately leaving out references to his sexuality and what Armie believes is an unconventional stance on relationships. He doesn’t think this is the right forum to get into all that. When he reaches the end of his notes, Armie doesn’t immediately return to his seat.

“Anything else Armand?” 

Armie debates whether he should say more. He glances over at Saoirse, who shakes her head. Finally, he nods once, takes a deep breath. 

“Most of us probably think we know Tim. I mean, he has a reputation on campus and it’s not the best.” 

“That’s an understatement,” Nick scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Tim scowls in his direction. 

“But he’s more than just the guy who ends up spending too many Saturdays in detention, who’s quick with a cutting insult and a belittling nickname. He’s really smart, funny, creative and talented. But most importantly, he’s true to himself. Which is something few of us can honestly claim to be,” Armie says, scratching his thumb across an untamed eyebrow. 

“I’m not exactly sure what I’m trying to say. I guess just that I admire Tim’s self-confidence and the fact that he’s unafraid to show people exactly who he is without artifice or apology. And maybe he’s not always the easiest person to get along with — I mean, let’s be real, he’s a complete jerk sometimes,” he chuckles dryly. 

“But I think, in some ways, we could all stand to be a little more like Tim. At least, I wish I could be.” 

Armie carefully refolds the notebook paper and tucks it into his breast pocket. In the stunned silence, he hears only the ticking of the wall clock above the circulation desk and the blood rushing in his ears. He keeps his eyes downcast on the way back to his chair beside Saoirse.

“Well,” Runyon stands, checks the time. “OK, I hope you all learned something today. I’ll be back in an hour to dismiss you and return your phones.” 

When the library door swings shut, Tim pounces. Leaning over Armie’s shoulder, he growls, “Follow me.”

When Saoirse starts to get up too, Tim fixes her with a hard look. 

“Stay.”

Tim leads him deep into the fiction stacks. Without warning, he spins and steps menacingly into Armie’s personal space.

“What the fuck was all that?!” he hisses, eyes flashing. “You wish you could be like me? Are you fucking with me?”

“Huh? No, Tim. I meant every word I said!” 

Tim repeatedly stabs Armie in the chest with his forefinger, driving the taller boy back until his body is flush against the shelves.

“I swear to God, Armie, I will kick your ass …” 

“I _meant_ it,” he whispers. 

Practically nose to nose, they stare into each other’s eyes, sparkling blue implores piercing green. Armie’s face is open and guileless. 

Tim unclenches his fists and retreats until he’s also leaning against the books. He’s not sure where that burst of anger and adrenaline came from. He’s used to being envied and desired by some; reviled and despised by others. But admiration is altogether new and Armie’s apparently earnest declaration leaves him feeling unsettled. He runs a hand through his hair and steadies his breathing. 

“Why are you here?”

Armie’s gaze drifts to the left. He strains to read the titles on the book spines just over Tim’s shoulder —they’re in the Ws and he can just make out _The Underground Railroad._

“It’s private and I’d rather not talk —”

“Fuck that noise,” Tim spits. “What the fuck did you do, Armie?” 

He heaves a shuddering sigh. “You know Tyler Harrison?” 

Tim nods. Senior, varsity first baseman, insufferable dick. 

“Well, his locker is near mine and … he and his friends don’t exactly like me. Usually, they call me a nerd, geek or loser.” 

Tim cringes, thinking about the string of insults he directed at Armie during his internal monologue that morning. 

“But lately, they’ve escalated to, um, homophobic slurs,” he adds, peering at Tim to gauge his reaction.

“I ignore them because they’re idiots, right? But Thursday, they cornered me between fifth and sixth period. They started up and I don’t know, I was having a not so great day and I guess I just wasn’t in the mood for their bullshit, so I told Tyler to fuck off. He didn’t take it so well. With his boys egging him on, he got up in my face, pushed me and threatened to do worse…” his voice trails off. 

“What happened?” 

“I kinda snapped. Grabbed him by the shirt and slammed him against the lockers. Kneed him in the balls. Hard.” 

“Jesus Christ, Armie!”

“I know, I know!” He looks stricken. 

“How did you avoid getting suspended?” 

“Mr. Steinberg, the chem teacher, saw the whole thing unfold and vouched for me with the dean. He told her I was acting in self-defense, which wasn’t entirely untrue. Since I’ve never been in trouble before, she gave me the benefit of the doubt.”

Tim nods thoughtfully. “Why didn’t you want to tell Saoirse?” 

“Because I’m ashamed that I resorted to violence, Tim! It never solves anything, it only makes things worse.” 

“Eh, technically that’s true,” he says, grinning impishly. “But that hateful bitch deserved to get his tiny nuts crushed.” 

A beat goes by before they burst into giggles. It occurs to Armie that this is the first time they’re actually _sharing_ a laugh. Every time they start to settle down, one of them starts up again and soon both of them are bent over, gasping and clutching their stomachs. 

When their laughter finally fades, Tim studies Armie’s face — the soft fullness of his cheeks, the regal slope of his nose, the way his top lip curls a little when he smiles broadly. 

“Are you though?” he asks.

Armie furrows his brow, “Hmm, am I what?” 

“Gay.” 

“What? Of course not! Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay. Or bi,” he hastens to add. “But, you know, I’m not.” 

“Have you ever kissed a girl?” 

“What kind of question is that?” he sputters. 

Tim just shrugs one shoulder. 

“Of course I’ve kissed girls!” 

Tim arches an eyebrow. Armie squirms, looks away. “Well, once” he admits, “when I was living in France.” 

“Naturally. Did you like it?” 

Armie opens and closes his mouth. The truth is, he hadn’t really enjoyed the kiss. Perhaps, after years of watching films and TV shows spin the fantasy that first kisses are magical, reality was bound to disappoint. The girl had been eager and experienced; but Armie had felt unsure and out of his element. It had been a lot wetter and messier than he anticipated.

His silence is all the confirmation Tim needs. He closes the distance between them. Looking up through his lashes he murmurs, “Ever kissed a guy?” 

Armie swallows thickly and his eyes dart to Tim’s plump, pink and slightly parted lips. His brain feels sluggish, like it’s submerged in a pool of viscous mud. It seems to take forever for an answer to surface.

“No,” he breathes. 

Tim lightly brushes his lips across Armie’s, then presses firmly. By the third peck, Armie is eagerly kissing him back, following Tim’s lead when his mouth opens and he slowly twirls only the very tip of his tongue with Armie’s. 

With his heart pounding and fingertips tingling, Armie thinks this is how a kiss should feel. Although he’s turned on (he catches himself before an embarrassing moan escapes), he’s also excited in a way that transcends the merely physical. Excited about embracing his truth and the future. 

When Tim pulls away, they’re both smiling. 

“Time’s up delinquents!” Runyon’s booming voice shatters the mood. 

“Come on,” Tim says, rolling his eyes. “Let’s get the fuck outta here.” 


	5. Bette Davis Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie and Tim have a blissful weekend, but come Monday morning, it's time to face the music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long, it was kind of a bear to write! OK, so I've always wondered what would have happened at school on Monday after the Breakfast Club detention. Would the kids have stuck by their new friends or would they have retreated to the safety of their stereotyped little boxes? This chapter shows how I think things would have gone down. 
> 
> Kim Carnes gives us our chapter title, but I seriously considered using Boomtown Rats' "I Don't Like Mondays," only they released it in 1979! Who knew?
> 
> I know I'm behind on responding to comments, but I truly appreciate every one! Thanks to all of you who are still reading.

When Armie and Tim step out onto the front steps of the school, the temperature has dropped and the sun is sinking on the horizon. A light breeze rustles the russet and gold leaves still clinging to the oaks lining the suburban street. 

“Hey, did you drive?” Tim asks, zipping his bomber jacket against the chill. 

“No, my mom dropped me off.” 

Armie is replying to a couple of texts from Victor, who wants to borrow his Beats headphones, and his best friend, Andy, who is peppering him with questions about his time in detention. For now, he decides not to disclose anything about Tim or the kiss. He’s still reeling and needs time to process everything that happened before he confides in anyone. 

“You don’t have a car?”

Hearing how Tim’s voice rises several octaves in surprise, Armie looks up from his phone, frowning. “I have a bike? And, you know, I like walking.”

 _Walking? Jesus, this kid._  

“Armie, I’ll see you on Monday, yeah?” 

Saoirse winds a crocheted burgundy scarf around her neck and tightens the belt on her black overcoat. Rummaging through her pockets, she retrieves a cherry Chapstick, applies a thin layer and rubs her lips together. 

“Yep. I’ll meet you in the quad during lunch period, Sersh.” 

 _Sersh?_ Tim’s eyes dart between the two. After her syrupy presentation, he can’t figure out if Saoirse is into Armie and cluelessly not picking up the queer vibes he’s putting down or if she’s just being friendly. Either way, it’s obvious Armie likes her, so Tim figures he should try to make amends for being a dick to her all day. At this point, he really doesn’t know what’s going on between him and Armie. Yeah, he impulsively kissed the guy — and it was surprisingly hot — but that doesn’t change the fact that Armie is nerdy, virginal and decidedly not his type. Still, Tim doesn’t want her as an enemy; he has enough of those already. 

“Do you need a ride home, Saoirse?”

With one pale blonde eyebrow cocked, she eyes him suspiciously. “Ah, no. I don’t live far. But, thanks for the offer, Tim.” 

She hugs Armie tightly, turns and strides down the stairs. They watch as she disappears down the street. 

“I’m fucking starving,” Tim groans when his stomach rumbles loudly, breaking the awkward silence stretching between them. “You want to get something to eat?” 

Armie breathes a sigh of relief. “Yeah, sure.” 

Rounding the corner of the building, Armie is surprised to see the only car left in the student parking lot is a sleek ebony SUV. When they get closer and he realizes it’s an Audi SQ5, he  stops short. 

“Is this your parents’ car?” 

“Nope.” Tim presses a button on the key fob, unlocking the doors with a low beep. He tosses his bag into the back seat. “It’s mine. Birthday present last year.” 

Armie stows his backpack between his feet and runs a hand over the soft leather upholstery. Even in their wealthy neighborhood where parents routinely shower their kids with designer clothes and nice cars, he’s surprised one of his classmates is rolling in his own $60,000 luxury vehicle. 

“You cool with Hal’s?” Tim asks, over the engine’s soft purr. 

Twenty minutes later, they’re digging into loaded plates of double cheeseburgers and fries in a booth at the popular spot known for serving generous portions of classic diner fare. Since they arrived before the dinner rush, most of the other tables are either empty or occupied by senior citizens enjoying the meat loaf, mashed potatoes and peas early-bird special. 

Armie stirs his chocolate milkshake with a straw and works up the nerve to pose the question that’s been on his mind all day. “May I ask you something?” 

“Mm-hm,” Tim grunts, dragging a couple of fries through a pool of ketchup and stuffing them into his already full mouth.  

“Why did you end up in detention today?”

He finishes chewing and wipes his mouth with a napkin before answering.

“It’s stupid really,” Tim sighs. “I was in English and this asshole was going on about how multiculturalism is an attempt to delegitimize the ‘Western canon,’” rolling his eyes, he makes ironic quotation marks with his fingers.

“I wasn’t trying to hear that racist bullshit and I let him know that just because a bunch of white dudes’ books have been taught _for-fucking-ever_ doesn’t mean they’re the only writers who have ever said anything important and insightful about the human condition. Well,” he slurps up the last of his orange Fanta, “he took exception to my argument and my tone, so I told him where he could shove the fucking Western canon. Boom! Dean’s office for me.”

Tim is trying to flag down their waitress for a drink refill so he doesn’t see the wonder and adoration on Armie’s face. When he turns back, Armie has schooled his features into a neutral expression. 

“Hey, before I forget, let me see your phone.” 

Armie digs it out of his pants pocket and dutifully hands it over. 

“The first number is my primary phone,” he explains, thumbs flying over the keyboard. “The second is for the one I use during detention. I doubt you’ll be going back, unless you plan on regularly busting balls,” Tim chuckles. “I’ll most likely be on lockdown again, though, so you can reach me on that one if you need to.” 

“You have two phones?”

Tim pulls a face. “You think I’m gonna sit in that library all fucking day with no way to contact the outside world? Please. Not happening.”  

He texts himself so he has Armie’s number and returns the phone. 

“I have a question for you. Why did you choose the clarinet?” 

Armie grins, eager to talk about one of his favorite subjects. 

“I love the timbre. And it’s deceptively easy to play, but really hard to play well, you know? From the time Johnann Christoph Denner invented it in 1700, the clarinet has inspired some of the greatest composers, including Mozart and Brahms. It’s an amazing instrument.” 

“Eh, I don’t know about that. The woodwinds as a group are kinda lame, in my opinion.”

Armie gapes at him. 

“What? Come on, name one famous clarinet player.” 

Before Armie can respond, Tim interjects, “And don’t say Benny Goodman!”

“Heinrich Baermann, Jack Brymer, Sabine Meyer—”

“Name one I’ve actually heard of,” he scoffs, chewing loudly. “Look, the trumpet is cool and everyone knows the sax is hot as fuck. But the clarinet? Sorry, man, not even a little bit sexy.” 

“Well, you’ve never seen me play,” he shrugs, plucking a golden onion ring from the basket they ordered to share. 

When Tim widens his eyes and freezes with his burger half-way to his mouth, Armie frantically backtracks. 

“Oh God, I didn’t mean I’m sexy when I play! I’m so not, I mean, I never am really, sexy that is,” he stammers. “I just meant that I’m pretty good. Anyway, the clarinet is super versatile. It’s used in jazz, classical, swing, samba, even pop. You could say it has the range,” he concludes, wiggling his eyebrows. 

Tim groans at the corny joke, even though he finds it kind of adorable that Armie is so pleased with himself for making it. 

“Would you say you’re in to v _ersatility_ then?” 

The sexual innuendo sails right over Armie’s head. 

“Of course! It’s always better to be able to do more than one thing.”

“Yeah, totally,” he nods. 

Smiling, he reminds himself that Armie is but a wee babe in the gay woods. 

* * * *

Fastening his seat belt with one hand, Tim adjusts the heat with the other, shivering under the initial blast of cool air.

“Do you want to come over and watch a movie?” 

For once, his invitation isn’t a euphemism for ‘wanna fuck?’ He knows Armie is nowhere near ready to make that leap, and honestly, he doesn’t want to go there either. The reason Tim doesn’t mess around with virgins — besides the fact that he doesn’t have the patience to put on a tutorial when he’s trying to get off — is that they tend to get emotionally attached. And he has a feeling sweet, innocent Armie would be especially susceptible to developing a debilitating case of ‘dick devotion.’ 

Given that likely outcome, Tim shouldn’t even consider bending his no virgins rule for Armie and yet here he is, essentially indulging in dinner and a movie, a.k.a the most basic ass date imaginable. Even though they aren’t calling this a date. 

_The fuck am I doing?_

Armie is excited Tim doesn’t want their time together to end either. “Yeah, that sounds good,” he replies, aiming for nonchalance but missing wide when his voice comes out with a slight tremor. He clears his throat, but it’s too late. 

Tim sees right through him.  

The sprawling house is a modernist marvel of wood, glass and steel set far back from the curb at the end of a winding cul-de-sac. 

“Welcome to Chez Chalamet, the house that boob jobs and brow lifts built,” Tim announces, pulling into the three-car garage.

“My mom’s a plastic surgeon,” he clarifies in answer to Armie’s unspoken question. 

“Really?”

Plastic surgery is a far cry from epidemiology, but it’s a medical discipline, just the same. Armie always seeks opportunities to talk to doctors about their education and training. He wonders where Tim’s mom went to medical school and if she’d be willing to discuss her experiences with him one day. 

He follows Tim through a door into a tidy mudroom. “What does your dad do?”

“He’s a partner in a law firm. Corporate shit, you know, mergers and acquisitions. Snooze.” 

Tim’s mom is sitting at the kitchen island with a cup of green tea and her iPad.

“Hey mom, this is Armie. We met in detention, it was his first time,” he says, kissing her cheek.

Armie flushes pink with embarrassment. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Chalamet,” he says, politely shaking her hand.

“Hi Armie,” she smiles warmly. “It’s Flender, actually, but you can just call me Nicole. Welcome and please make yourself at home.” 

“Don’t try to rip Armand a new one in French for assuming you took your husband’s surname mom,” Tim says, retrieving a pitcher of lemonade from the refrigerator and pouring two glasses. “He’s practically fluent.” 

“Timmy! Ignore him Armie,” she says, rolling her eyes fondly at her son. “Your dad and I are going to the charity fundraiser tonight, but there’s leftover lasagna and salad in the fridge if you boys get hungry.” 

He emerges from the pantry and thrusts a bag of salt-and-vinegar potato chips into Armie’s hands, then picks up their drinks. “Thanks, but we just ate. Have fun at the one-percenter-guilt-assuaging-gala,” he tosses over his shoulder. 

Armie follows Tim upstairs to his spacious bedroom at the far end of the hall. Unlike the rest of the house, which is neat and orderly, there’s a pile of clothes on an armchair in the corner, shoes scattered across the hardwood floor and a couple of empty coffee cups on the bookshelf. A picture window spanning almost an entire wall overlooks a lighted swimming pool and the yard that backs up to a thicket of red maple and birch trees.

Armie steps closer to inspect a quartet of framed black and white photos on the wall above the bed— a bustling outdoor market in Paris, a view of the Eiffel Tower from a rooftop, Frédéric Chopin’s grave in Père Lachaise cemetery, a snow covered Notre Dame.

“Did you take these? They’re really good.” He stoops over the nightstand to look at a smaller color picture of Tim and a teenage girl. The photographer caught the pair mid-laugh with their mouths wide and eyes crinkled in delight.  

“Yep, thanks. My dad took that one of me and my sister, Pauline.” 

“Wow, she’s gorgeous! You guys look so much alike.” Armie blushes at the implication of what he’s said. To his relief, Tim let’s his comment pass.  

“You can drop your stuff anywhere. Here, give me your jacket.” 

Tim drapes it over the back of the desk chair. He hangs up his own in the walk-in closet, then sits on the queen-size bed to untie his boots, carelessly kicking them aside. He picks up a couple of remotes from the walnut credenza holding the flat screen TV at the foot of his bed. When Armie starts to settle at the desk, Tim pats the space beside him where he’s propped up on pillows against the tufted, charcoal velvet headboard. 

Armie toes off his sneakers and sits gingerly, stretching his long legs out across the pale pink and dove grey duvet. 

“What's the name of the movie you said is one of your favorites?” Tim asks, logging into Netflix. “Adam and Eve?”

“ _All About Eve_ ,” Armie laughs, admiring the elephants wearing sunglasses on Tim’s socks when he flexes his toes. 

He sips the sweet-tart lemonade, smacking his lips, and passes the second frosty glass to Armie. “What’s it about?”  

“Bette Davis plays an aging Broadway star whose younger assistant ruthlessly schemes to take over her professional and personal life. It’s a classic.” 

“Bette Davis? What the fuck, dude, are you my grandma?” he teases, playfully bumping Armie’s shoulder with his own. Still, he searches the streaming services until he finds the film on Amazon.

Within fifteen minutes, he’s out cold, snoring softly. Although Armie’s fingers itch to push back the thatch of curls hiding Tim’s face, he keeps his hands folded primly in his lap. It’s nearly 8:30 p.m. when Tim stirs, awakened by Armie slowly inching toward the edge of the bed. 

“Hey, where ya going?” he slurs in a raspy voice, eyes still half closed.

“Home? You’re really tired so —”

“I’m sorry for crashing on you, man. I swear I’ll wake up, just give me a minute. Stay and I’ll drive you home,” he yawns and turns on his side, snuggling close and laying his head on Armie’s shoulder. 

Armie’s heart thuds wildly. The warmth from Tim’s slim body pressed against him ignites his teenage libido. He imagines what might happen if Tim rolled over on top of him in his sleep, but quickly derails that train of thought. He’d be mortified if Tim woke up and found him pitching a tent like some kind of horny creep. Sighing, he directs his attention away from the alluring boy cuddled up beside him and back to the TV.

 _A bumpy night indeed, Miss Davis._  

Even though he’s keyed up, before long Armie’s eyelids grow heavy, too. 

Three hours later, Tim opens his eyes. His arm is draped across Armie’s midsection and he’s clutching a handful of wrinkled polo shirt at his waist. His head is tucked into the crook of Armie’s neck, lips and nose touching smooth, warm skin that smells faintly of woodsy cologne. Armie’s arm is wrapped around his shoulder, holding him tightly even in sleep. Gazing up at Armie’s handsome profile, Tim takes a moment to appreciate the view before gently shaking him awake. 

“Hmmm…oh hey,” he murmurs. “What time is it?” 

Tim squints at his phone. “Almost midnight.” 

“Shit!” Armie sits bolt upright, jostling Tim. “I didn’t tell my parents I’d be out this late.” Wild-eyed, he scrambles to put on his shoes and jacket. 

“Can’t you just sneak in?” Tim asks, shoving his feet into his boots.

"OK, OK,” he says, raising his hands in mock surrender when Armie glares at him. “I’ll get you home in like ten minutes, Cinderella.” 

During the ride, Armie checks his phone every few blocks and swears under his breath each time they’re caught at a stoplight. Only eight minutes have gone by when Tim pulls over in front of Armie’s house, a two-story Craftsman bungalow. He lets the engine idle. 

“What are you doing tomorrow?” 

“Finishing the calculus homework I didn’t get to do during detention,” he grouses, pulling out his keys. One hand grasps the straps on his backpack, the other is wrapped around the door handle.

“Listen, I have to work, but I get off at 1 p.m.. Do you want to hang out after? I feel like I should make up for flaking on you tonight.” 

“It’s fine, Tim. You don’t owe me or anything.” He opens the door and swings one leg out, his foot resting in the damp grass. 

“Armie,” he stops him with a hand on his bicep, the worn denim soft under his palm, “just meet me at the café, OK? It’s cool if you ride your bike over, there’s enough room for it in the back.” 

Tim checks himself; swallows hard. If the kid has other shit to do or decides he’d rather not get together again it’s _totally_ _fine._

Armie doesn’t want Tim to feel obligated to spend time with him, he’s not that pathetic. So, instead of answering he simply stares back at him, his eyes reflecting the silvery moonlight. 

Tim hesitates before leaning across the center console. He kisses with more fervor this time, stroking his tongue across Armie’s, sliding it over the roof of his mouth, dipping into the silky space behind his bottom lip where the sugary tang of the lemonade still lingers.

Overwhelmed, Armie releases the moan that bubbles up in his throat. Shuddering, Tim tangles his fingers in Armie’s hair and deepens the kiss. 

“You’ll meet me?” he whispers against Armie’s lips. 

“Yeah.” 

_* * * *_

Slipping his hand into his pajama pants, Armie wraps his fingers loosely around his stiff cock. He wants this to last. Stroking slowly, he wonders how Tim would feel and taste on his tongue. Heavy and slightly bitter, he guesses. He thinks about how Tim might run his fingers through his hair, gripping tightly if he sucked hard; how he would let Tim fuck his mouth if he wanted to; how he might moan low and husky that Armie was _so good_ for taking it all. Whimpering, he throws an arm across his eyes, blacking out the morning sun so he can see the vivid images unspooling in his mind. 

He slides his thumb through the sticky wetness, slicking it in circles around the swollen head. He gasps, imagines Tim’s voice in his ear, “Fuck, Armie … don’t stop, baby. Gonna come down your throat. Want you to swallow it.” 

Crying out, Armie trembles as thick spurts of cum splash onto his naked torso and dribble down his fingers. 

“Oh fuuuuccck, Timmy,” he groans into the pillow pressed against his face. Catching his breath, Armie fears he won’t be able to look Tim in the eye later.

Fewer than three miles away, Tim is blinking lazily up at the ceiling, basking in the afterglow of an orgasm brought on by an erotic fantasy involving Armie and the backseat of his Audi. There’s no shame in his game, though, so he doesn’t waste a second on regret.

* * * *

When the bell above the door chimes, Tim looks up from the latte he’s making to see Armie enter the café, twenty minutes before his shift ends. He tentatively raises a hand in greeting and Tim waves him down to the far end of the counter, where he’s partially obscured by the gleaming silver espresso machine. 

“Hi,” Armie smiles shyly. 

“Hey, you’re early.”

“Oh, sorry. I can come back later …” he jerks a thumb over his shoulder toward the entrance. 

“Dude, relax, it’s cool. Give me a second and I’ll fix you a drink.” 

He carries the latte down to his co-worker Angela, a lanky redhead. 

“Who’s the hottie?”

“Huh?” 

He follows her gaze over to Armie, who is staring up at the menu, completely unaware that they’re watching him. He’s wearing a hunter green Patagonia jacket over a flannel shirt and jeans. Tim’s mildly disappointed the jeans are more ‘dad’ than ‘daddy,’ but they’re still a vast improvement over the khakis, which, he notes, were hiding an impressive ass.  

“That’s Armie,” he says, his matter-of-fact tone belied by the way his eyes crawl slowly over the other boy’s body.

“Hmm…he’s not your usual type, you know, pretentious hipsters and closeted fuckboys.”

Tim narrows his eyes at her. “Whatever. I mean, he’s cute and smart, but we’re not —” 

“Riiigghtt,” she draws out the word, cutting him off. “You better get over there and take his order before I do.” 

“Shut up,” he laughs. A drama student at the community college, or as Tim calls it, his future alma mater, Angela is a huge flirt, but she’s harmless. 

Tim raises his voice to be heard over the hiss and gurgle of the steaming milk.

“So, did you finish your calculus?”  

“I did. I even had time to do a set of extra credit problems.” 

“Jesus, Armie, you’re such a dork,” he grins. “I’m sure you already have an A in the class. Ask Evans if you can give me some of your surplus points to boost my pathetic grade. Here ya go.” 

He slides a large orange mug across the counter. 

When Armie looks confused, he adds, “It’s my special heart attack hot chocolate. Whole milk and hand-whipped cream. Since you don’t like coffee.” 

Armie beams, thrilled that Tim remembered. 

“What can I get you to eat? Croissant, eclair, quiche?” 

“Croissant. Always croissant.”

Armie pulls a twenty from his wallet, but Tim waves it away.

“It’s on me. Grab a table and I’ll join you as soon I clean up.” 

“Thanks, Tim.”

Angela whistles low beside him. “Whoa, nice ass,” she says, watching Armie walk away. “Lucky you, Timmy. I can handle things back here, go get your man.” 

“Again, to be clear, not my man.” He unties the blue and white apron and pulls it over his head, ruffling his hair in the process. 

“Well, maybe he should be,” she fires back.  

Armie, who had been scrolling through Twitter catching up on the news from the Sunday shows, puts his phone down when Tim sits across from him.

“This place is really nice,” he says, looking around at the collection of mismatched wooden tables and comfy armchairs. There’s a crimson sofa along an exposed-brick wall, colorful blown-glass light fixtures and artwork by local artists hung around the funky space. “How long have you worked here?” 

Tim gently swirls his mocha. “Two years. Sheila, the owner, is fucking awesome. She schedules me around detention and displays my photographs. I’ve even sold a few. Speaking of, I was gonna head over to the park today and take some pictures, is that cool?” 

“Yeah, of course.” Biting into the flaky croissant, Armie hums contentedly. “How did you get interested in photography?” 

“One summer when I was about ten, I discovered a photo album in my grandparents’ attic in France. It was filled with these amazing black-and-white photos of post-war Paris and the French countryside. My grandpa taught me how to use his old Leica and I’ve been taking pictures ever since, annoying the shit out of my family who get tired of me sticking a camera in their faces all the time.”

“I wish I could draw or something, but stick figures and doodles are about all I can do. It’s so cool that you’re an artist and a musician,” Armie gushes. “Will you show me more of your work?” 

“Sure, but remember, you’re the Renaissance man,” Tim teases.

“You’re hilarious.”

They spend the afternoon in the park, where Tim cajoles a bashful Armie into posing. Almost from the moment he took a good look at him, Tim wondered how Armie’s striking blue eyes would look on film. In return, Armie insists they take an old-school selfie, turning the vintage Olympus around to capture an image of them with their heads together, smiling goofily. Tim goes along with it, even though he’s sure half their faces will be out of frame. He can’t wait to get in the darkroom to develop the negatives. 

Since it’s a brisk day, they encounter only a few other visitors. Tim takes advantage of their solitude when they return to his car. Although he doesn’t try to lure Armie into the backseat to act out his fantasy, Tim pins him against the door with his hips, ravaging his sweet mouth and squeezing that delectable ass. 

Armie’s skin is hot all over, his nerve endings sparking like live wires. When Tim sucks on his neck and pushes his cool hands beneath his shirt, he gasps. When Tim slips a slim thigh between his legs and presses against the hardness he finds there, Armie’s knees buckle a little. Instinctively, his hips rock forward, grinding into the pressure. 

“Oh, God,” Armie murmurs, his voice deep and hoarse. 

 _Fuck._ Tim’s stomach clenches. He brings their mouths together again, kissing him hungrily. 

Armie doesn’t know what to do with his hands which flit from Tim’s shoulders, down to his elbows before settling lightly at his waist. Normally, such uncertainty would flip the switch on the flashing, neon ‘VIRGIN’ warning sign in Tim’s mind, killing his fucking mood. But this is different and he can’t say why. 

Tim is about ten seconds away from shoving his hand down the front of Armie’s jeans — not giving a fuck that they’re in a public place — when a shrill alarm rings insistently. 

“That’s my … I have to …” Armie’s breathing is ragged. He pauses, willing his racing heart to slow. “After last night, I promised my mom I’d be back in time for dinner. I, I have to go.” 

Tim nods once, backs away. “Right. OK. Let’s get you home then, Cinderella.” 

It feels more like an endearment than an insult, but Armie still rolls his eyes as he slides into the passenger seat. 

“Again with the nicknames, Tim?” 

* * * * 

When Armie approaches him at school before the first bell on Monday morning, Tim is happy to see him. It doesn’t last long. 

“Hi,” Armie’s grin lights up his face. 

“Hey.” Tim enthusiastically returns the smile. 

He thinks about how they stayed up for hours the night before on FaceTime discussing music, books and politics. Although he thought it was unlikely, Tim had to make sure Armie doesn’t secretly own a MAGA cap or hold equally vile views. 

He thinks about how pliant Armie was when they were making out at the park and how fucking hot it was to be given control. Tim thinks about how, despite his many male and female conquests, he’s never felt so physically and intellectually stimulated by anyone before. 

Armie is watching him expectantly. So are his friends. 

“Yo Timo, who the fuck is this?” Noah gives Armie the once over, his mouth twisted into a sneer. Tim recognizes the look — hell, he _invented_ that look — a mix of amusement and disdain that is only a slip-up away from tipping over into contempt. 

Tim sees Armie through his friends’ eyes: ill-fitting pleated ( _PLEATED for fuck’s sake!_ ) khakis, a hideous olive and navy sweater and those goddamn New Balance sneakers. He cringes. 

_Fuck. Fuck!_

“Just some dude who was in detention with me,” he shrugs dismissively, avoiding Armie’s gaze.  

“Dude, did you borrow those pants from your grandpa?” Noah snickers. “You forget to pull them up under your arm pits?” 

The rest of the group laughs cruelly. Panicked,Tim bolts. 

“I gotta meet Richardson and apologize for telling that kid to shove _Light in August_ up his Faulkner-loving ass. Later.” 

Rushing down the hall, he tries not to think about the hurt and confusion on Armie’s face.

In second period, Armie hides his phone in his lap, making sure Ms. Evans, the calculus teacher, isn’t looking in his direction before he types a text. 

 **Armie:** hey, is something wrong? did I upset you? 

Five, ten, fifteen minutes go by without a reply. He’s lightheaded and his gut churns with dread. 

 **Tim:** the weekend was fun but this ain’t gonna work 

 **Tim:** we’re

Armie anxiously watches the three flickering dots on the screen. 

 **Tim:** too different 

Another few minutes elapse before the final text arrives. 

 **Tim:** sorry

Armie blinks at the phone, tears stinging his eyes. He bites the inside of his cheek so he won’t cry. Not here. Not in class. 

He focuses on his breathing, on forcing air into his lungs through the tightness in his chest. In two hours he’ll meet up with Saoirse and then he can release the pain and despair clawing at his insides. Until then, he has to keep it together. 

_Two hours._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof! I know that was rough. Just remember, Tim is a dumb teenage boy. The good news is we are leaving the Breakfast Club behind and heading into our teen movie tropes -- one per chapter and I have it all mapped out, so maybe this will be easier to write going forward (narrator voice: it was not easier). Have faith in our boys!


	6. Karma Chameleon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saoirse sees red, Armie flips the script and Tim? Well, regrets, he's had a few.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the wonderful comments on the last chapter! A couple of you had some good guesses about where we're going, too. Our first trope is a classic! Our chapter title, of course, comes from the iconic Culture Club. 
> 
> I appreciate all of you who are reading. Your enthusiasm and kind words are inspiring me to update a little faster (to the detriment of my other neglected fic; please forgive me SadMadGlad!).

He has to physically restrain Saoirse. 

When Armie had shown up in the quad with a stricken expression, quivering chin and watery eyes, she had taken him by the elbow and steered him out to the baseball diamond at the rear of the school. The football bleachers were closer, but kids tend to hang out there during lunch and she could tell they needed total privacy. 

He had collapsed sobbing into Saoirse’s arms and she had held his trembling body tight, rubbing firm circles between his shoulder blades. She knew without having to ask that his emotional breakdown had something to do with Timothée-fucking-Chalamet, and even as she stroked Armie’s hair and whispered soothing words in his ear, she was plotting revenge. 

Armie finally pulled himself together enough to tell her everything that happened since she had left him and Tim on the school’s front steps two days earlier, pausing when a fresh wave of tears spilled over his splotchy cheeks. When he reached the end of the story, Saoirse was practically vibrating with fury. 

That’s how the friends end up wedged in the dugout’s narrow doorway, Saoirse’s hands braced against the frame as she tries to wrench herself from the muscular arms encircling her waist.

“I’m going to fucking kill him!” she seethes, twisting violently in his grasp. “Let me go, Armie!” 

“Sersh! Please, no. You can’t,” he pleads in a choked voice, maintaining his hold on her.

“He doesn’t get to treat you this way, like you’re … _disposable_ , like you don’t have _feelings_ and then strut around school like no one can touch his skinny ass. Not on my fucking watch!” 

Although she really doesn’t want to hurt Armie, Saoirse briefly considers driving a sharp elbow into his ribs so she can make a run for it. She figures the pain would bring him to his knees, buying her just enough time to give him the slip. If Tim is on campus, she might be able to track him down and rip him apart before Armie could stop her. 

Despite the cool fall weather, they’re both panting and sweaty from exertion.

“Listen to me, Saoirse.” 

She keeps struggling and Armie tightens his grip, noting with surprise that she’s stronger than she looks. 

“If you hit him you’ll end up back in detention, or worse, suspended, maybe even expelled. This is senior year, you don’t want to risk missing graduation or jeopardizing your college admission offers over Timothée Chalamet,” he hisses. “He’s not worth it.”

The defeat in Armie’s voice sucks the wind from her sails and Saoirse deflates, sagging against him. Her chest is heaving and she fights to draw a breath. She’s so frustrated she could cry, but she won’t give that scrawny punk the satisfaction, even though Tim’s not there to witness any bitter tears she might shed. 

“OK, OK. You’re right.” 

They stumble back inside the dugout and sink together onto the green wooden bench running the length of the shaded space. Peering at Armie, her sharp gaze sweeps over his swollen eyes and puffy face. Her heart shatters.

Saoirse had been drawn to Armie the moment they started talking in the library. Not physically or romantically— almost immediately she had guessed he might be queer — but as a kindred, sensitive spirit who loves fiercely and feels deeply.

But she has harder edges than Armie, who is cottony soft. While Saoirse sheathes her heart in armor and cages it in steel as a means of self-protection, Armie carries his cradled in his bare hands, offering it up freely and without reservation. 

Armie is a good person with a pure soul and she knows he deserves much better than to have his tender heart trampled by a preening teenage prick in black Louboutins. She sighs, kicking absentmindedly at the cigarette butts and sunflower seed shells littering the concrete dugout floor. 

“I’m so sorry Armie,” she confesses, wincing at the pain brimming in his red-rimmed eyes. “You’re hurting and you came to me for comfort and support. But instead of being a good friend and listening, I made this all about me and my anger.” 

“Sersh —”

“No, let me say this, please?” 

Angling her body so she’s facing Armie, she slips her slender hand in his and squeezes gently. 

“I’m sorry Tim treated you so badly. It’s his loss, though, because you are amazing. I’m here for you, so what do you need right now? We can stay and talk or we can ditch the rest of the day and drown our sorrows in hot fudge sundaes at Hal’s. Or we can get day drunk off our asses at my house and post petty shit about Tim on Insta. I know where my parents keep the good stuff.” 

He shakes his head. “I’m sad, but I haven’t lost my mind. You know I’m not gonna cut class.” 

“Yeah, I know.” 

They sit quietly for a while watching seagulls swoop down on the baseball field, pecking through discarded bags of chips and bickering over other tasty morsels careless students have left in their wake. 

“I just wish you could have seen us together, Sersh, then you’d understand,” Armie finally whispers, his tone wistful and melancholy. 

“When he’s not with his friends, or maybe it’s when he’s not at school, he’s different. The snarky jerk we saw in detention isn’t an act, but that’s not all there is to him. That’s just one facet of his personality. The Tim I was with over the weekend was thoughtful and considerate, too.” 

“If you say so. But all I care about is that he hurt you, so I really don’t give a fuck if he’s also a nice guy now and then. Besides, what happened to ‘he’s not worth it?’”

“I meant he’s not worth potentially trashing your future over. Or maybe it’s just that this situation doesn’t warrant that kind of sacrifice on your part. Yes, he fucked up. I’m … disappointed and he hurt my feelings. But he’s worth fighting for,” he stubbornly insists. 

“I know you think he’s an asshole,” he holds up a hand to stop her when she starts to enthusiastically agree, “and I’m not going to pretend he’s not a dick sometimes. But Sersh, he’s so much more than that.” 

She scowls and crosses her arms over her chest. “Are you seriously defending him right now?” 

“Not defending, just explaining.” Armie lightly tugs on a loose thread hanging from the hem of of his sweater. “I know what he did was not cool at all.”

“Not cool? Armie he threw you under the fucking bus! He spent the weekend making you believe he was interested in you and then, in front of his idiot friends, he pretended not to know you,” she fumes, anger flaring again. “How can you even consider forgiving him?” 

“The stuff I said about him in the library? It’s all true and I meant it. Although, I may have misjudged how much he actually does care what people think about him,” he admits, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck.

“But he’s so smart, Sersh, and like, he cares about the things that matter, you know? Like civil rights and inequality. He’s not just this shallow, privileged rich kid like most of the people at this school. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he is rich and privileged — remind me to tell you about his _car_ — but he knows it and he wants to be more than that. He is more than that already, with his music and art —” 

She cuts him off. 

“Armie, playing piano, a fucking rich kid’s pursuit if I ever heard one, and taking photos and developing his own film—honestly same, who has a darkroom in their house other than professionals? — doesn’t make him the second coming of Beethoven and Diane Arbus,” Saoirse sneers. 

“He’s just a punk-ass kid with an attitude and a sense of entitlement who thinks he can go around treating people like shit because they don’t measure up to his definition of cool. Well, you might not let me kick his bony ass, although I could totally take him, but you’re too good for him.” 

She cups his jaw and strokes her thumb over his cheek. Armie leans into her touch for a moment, accepting the caress and letting his tired eyes flutter shut. He inhales deeply before responding.

“You’re wrong, Sersh. But I guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree for now. There is something you can do to help me, though.” 

“Anything,” she sits up straight, eager to redeem herself for her earlier behavior. 

“Take me shopping and help me buy some fashionable clothes and shoes. Maybe change my hair, too?”  

The idea had come to him in his third period AP English class. Armie actually hadn’t cared that Tim’s friends made fun of his outfit; he’s been on the receiving end of uglier insults and hateful slurs. Seeing shame flash across Tim’s face, though, had been a kick in the gut.

He steels himself for her reaction. Saoirse doesn’t disappoint. She goes nuclear. 

“You have got to be fucking kidding me! You’re going to undergo some kind of radical makeover so Tim won’t be embarrassed to introduce you to his douchebag friends? You’re going to change WHO YOU ARE for that asshole?!” she shouts, leaping to her feet. 

“No, see that’s where you’re wrong. I think Tim _likes_ who I am. Yeah, he teases me about doing extra school work and caring so much about grades, but he likes that I’m smart and driven, Sersh. He appreciates that we can discuss stuff like literature, art and classical music, not just movies and TV shows— not that there’s anything wrong with those things, but constantly talking about pop culture gets old, don’t you think? He wants to know what I think about the fucked up state of our politics and climate change and criminal justice reform; and he respects my opinion.

“So no, I’m not going to change my personality,” he shrugs, “just my wardrobe.” 

Saoirse, who had been pacing the length of the dugout and running her fingers through her fine blonde hair, suddenly stops in front of him. Her blue eyes are hard, her mouth set in a grim line. When she doesn’t speak, Armie presses forward. 

“Listen Sersh, obviously I don’t care about fashion, at all.” 

He waves a hand down at the navy and olive sweater his Aunt Jessica gave him last Christmas. It looks fine to him, if a bit drab. “I can get rid of my khakis and polos and replace them with skinny jeans or, you know, whatever is cool now,” he flounders and she snorts scornfully. 

“It’s all the same to me, yeah? Just something to wear. But it matters to Tim. So if having a shot with him means fitting in with his friends based on something as superficial as clothes, I’m willing to try. I’ll still be me, I’ll just look a little different. But I need your help because I haven’t got a clue about what’s trendy or how to choose styles that would look good on my body type.”

“Oh my God,” she groans. 

Dropping down beside him on the bench, Saoirse props her elbows on her knees and cradles her head in her hands. “I’m trapped in a real-life version of _Grease.”_

“Um, you’re definitely not getting me into skintight satin pants. Anyway, it’s like we’re in _Grease 2_ , the superior film,” Armie counters.

She cuts her eyes at him. “Them’s fighting words, Armand.” 

“Sersh, please. You said you’d do anything to help me.” 

 _Well, fuck._  

“I didn’t have you pegged as someone who would throw words uttered in a moment of weakness and while under duress back in a friend’s face, Armie” she deadpans. 

For the first time since he first spied Tim in the hallway that morning, his smile reaches his eyes. “So, I can count on you?” 

Her expression softens and she huffs.  

“I’m sure this is a huge mistake and I’ll probably end up regretting it, but yes. You can count on me.” 

* * * *

Tim remembered that Armie and Saoirse planned to meet in the quad at lunch, so he rounds up his crew and gets the hell out of Dodge, heading over to the McDonald’s a few blocks away from school. He’s lost his appetite, though, so he’s listlessly picking at a chicken nugget and replaying the scene from the morning on a loop in his mind, imagining all the ways he could have handled the situation without disavowing Armie and running away like a fucking coward. 

“What was the deal with that guy this morning, Timmy?” Marcus asks, stealing a couple of fries. “He acted like he knew you.” 

“You know how it is man, everyone wants to know me,” Tim deflects, hoping to avoid talking about his connection to Armie.

When the guys stare back at him curiously, he offers a sanitized explanation. 

“Runyon had us do this bullshit exercise where we had to pair up and ask each other a bunch of personal questions and report back to the group,” he continues, nervously twisting the thin silver bracelet on his right wrist. “That dude ended up interviewing me, so he probably thinks we’re friends now or some shit. Obviously, we’re not.” 

Since they seem to accept that, he quickly changes the topic. “So, who’s hosting the after party?"

The homecoming dance is two weeks away. Tim and his friends have no plans to attend — they don’t go to school functions, especially ones with a semi-formal dress code — but they always hit up the off-campus festivities.  

“I heard the Sanchez twins volunteered as tributes,” Noah chuckles. “Which means the party will be fucking lit because their house is huge, they have a heated pool and spa and they’ll hire a professional DJ so we won’t have to listen to some asshole’s random Spotify list. Remember last year when Kristy Turner played K-pop most of the night? Jesus, that was legit awful,” he shudders at the memory of how they bailed early and ended up getting high in Mike’s basement without any female company. 

“Plus, their parents always stock the bar with top-shelf shit. We just need to make sure we have enough weed. Timo, you on it?” 

“Huh?” He tears his eyes away from the short text thread with Armie from that morning. “Yeah, I’ll handle it. No worries.” 

“You going with Jason?” 

Tim slips his phone back in his pocket. 

“Uh, no. We’re not really hanging out anymore.” 

He reminds himself to notify Jason of their status change. The last thing he needs is drama with a dude who caught feelings even though Tim told him he wasn’t interested in a relationship. The disaster with Armie further convinces him that he should stick to casual fucking. That way no one gets hurt. 

“Who’s next, guy or girl?” Mike asks, shoving the last of his burger in his mouth. 

The dimmest bulb among them, Mike can’t seem to fully grasp the concept of bisexuality. Somehow, he thinks Tim makes a conscious decision to pursue one gender or the other, instead of letting his eyes and dick guide him the same way any straight dude would. 

“Not how it works dumbass,” Marcus scoffs, tossing a balled up napkin at his friend’s head.

* * * *

On Saturday morning, Armie arrives at Saoirse’s house bearing coffee and bagels, with his mom’s platinum credit card tucked securely inside his wallet. 

“Oh thank God,” she squeals when he hands her a large soy latte. Settled in the passenger seat of his mom’s Tesla SUV, Saoirse takes a swig of the piping hot beverage before placing it in the cup holder. 

Reaching into the proffered bag and pulling out a poppy seed bagel with lox and cream cheese, she asks, “Did your mom give you a budget?” 

“Not really, she just told me to be reasonable,” Armie shrugs, biting into the first of his two breakfast sandwiches as he pulls away from the curb. 

"What does reasonable mean in this context? Like, a couple hundred bucks?” Saoirse mumbles around a mouthful of food. 

“No, I think she meant don’t blow through like, tens of thousands. I told her I’m replacing my entire wardrobe with nicer clothes, so she’s expecting me to spend a lot.” 

“Hmm. OK. Well, this is our plan of attack,” she says, wiping away cream cheese that has oozed from the sides of her bagel and popping her finger in her mouth. She pulls a notebook from the brown leather satchel draped across her torso.

“We’ll start at a couple of high-end consignment boutiques and vintage clothing shops downtown to see if we can find a quality leather jacket or two that won’t break the bank before we move on to the mall,” she continues, flipping pages and reviewing notes scribbled in purple ink. 

Glancing over at Armie’s feet, she sees he took her advice and wore Nike slides so he can avoid tying and re-tying shoe laces all day. He’s also wearing sweatpants and a pullover, perfect for quick dressing room changes. 

“It’s gonna be a long day, Armie. You ready?” 

Since Saoirse’s not sold on the whole makeover idea, Armie didn’t tell her he actually hates shopping for clothes. He puts on a brave face and reminds himself why he’s doing this, for Tim. 

“Yep, we have snacks and drinks in the back to keep us fortified —” 

Saoirse twists around to see a canvas grocery tote stuffed with Trader Joe’s treats and a small cooler on the floor. 

“ — so lead the way.” 

Their first stop is one of her favorite haunts, but they strike out pretty quickly. The menswear is very ‘middle-aged hedge funder’ and doesn’t fit the stylish, youthful aesthetic she has in mind for Armie. Saoirse is disappointed, but undaunted. She knows what she wants and is prepared to keep looking until she finds it. 

At the second consignment boutique they hit the sartorial jackpot. After explaining what they’re searching for to Crystal, a saleswoman Saoirse has known for years, she returns from the storeroom with a never worn Burberry bomber jacket from the fall collection that had been dropped off the previous day. It’s divine — fitted and cropped at the waist in buttery black leather. A quick web search reveals the owner is asking for a third of the retail price. 

Crystal gives them the juicy backstory. A woman discovered her younger boyfriend had cheated on her, so she packed up all the clothes she had bought him, including the jacket which she intended to give him for his birthday, and dumped them on the store. She’s wealthy, so she doesn’t care how much she gets for the stuff, she just wanted it out of her house. 

“You like?” Saoirse cocks her head, appraising Armie’s reflection in the full-length mirror. 

Even worn with sweatpants, he has to admit the jacket looks amazing. 

“I like,” he grins, running his hand over the sleeve. 

They don’t find anything at the other downtown shops, so they head to the mall where Saoirse has to overcome Armie’s inclination to choose loose-fitting clothes. The first time he emerges from the dressing room in jeans at least two sizes too large, she puts her foot down.

“Oh, hell no!” 

“What’s wrong?” 

“I could fit in those jeans with you Armie! They’re too fucking big,” she scolds, tugging the wide gap at his waist. 

“I don’t really like tight stuff,” he whines. 

“Look, I know the point of this ridiculous exercise is to help you win over Tim’s shallow friends. But don’t you also want to show off your best,” she pauses and pointedly lets her gaze drift downward, “ _assets_ to Tim?” 

A blush creeps up his neck and Armie clears his throat, looking around to make sure other shoppers aren’t in earshot. 

“Why stop at cool when we can go for sexy as fuck, right? Go back in the dressing room. I’ll pick a bunch of stuff for you to try on and send it in with one of the attendants.” 

The next several hours fly by as the friends methodically make their way through the men’s section of nearly every store in a whirlwind of messy fitting rooms, amused sales clerks, bewildered customers and beeping credit card readers. It’s a day befitting a Hollywood montage.

They only have one argument. It’s about sneakers, of course.

“Armie, trust me on this. Unless you’re in the market for running shoes, best to avoid New Balance. It’s a dad brand.” 

“I happen to like New Balance sneakers.They’re comfortable. And colorful,” he protests. “These Converse have no arch support!” 

“Yeah, well sometimes fashion means suffering. Your feet are gonna hurt. Suck it up, buttercup,” Saoirse shrugs, pushing the marigold, low-top Chucks back into his hands. 

“That’s bullshit. I’m sticking with my tried and true shoe,” he vows, picking up a sneaker from one of the dozens of tiny shelves lining the wall. “Maybe I should get these green and orange ones?” 

Saorise aims below the belt. Lowering her voice, she leans in and speaks directly into his ear, “Your boy wears thousand dollar designer boots, Armie, he’s not fucking anyone in ugly shoes his father might own.” 

He buys the Converse.  

Shortly after 3 p.m., they flop into seats at the food court, piling shopping bags loaded with jeans in a variety of colors and washes, slim-fit chinos, T-shirts, sweaters, button-down shirts, leather boots in black and brown; and Adidas, Converse and Nike sneakers on the chairs surrounding them. Saoirse still has a few items left on her list. While Armie is getting them bibimbap, she searches online for the perfect suede jacket. 

She thrusts her phone in his face when he returns. 

“You need this Berluti.” 

Armie laughs when he sees the price. “Uh, no. My mom is not going to go for a $5,800 suede jacket,” he shakes his head, digging into his spicy pork belly rice bowl. 

Saoirse regards him cooly. “You’ve spent like, a total of $300 on your wardrobe over the past four years, Armie. She’ll go for it. Give me your phone.” 

She types a text to his mom with a photo of the jacket, a brief description of what they’ve already bought and a rough estimate of how much they’ve spent. She finds the Burberry jacket online and attaches that image too, explaining that it was a steal. She lets Armie read it before hitting ‘send.’ 

Ten minutes later, his mom replies, “It’s gorgeous! Buy it.” 

She doesn’t even try to hide her gloating.  

Their final stop is an upscale hair salon. Appointments are usually booked weeks, if not months, in advance; but Saoirse’s cousin manages the place and she was able to squeeze Armie in for a haircut when they had a cancellation. 

When they finally pull up in front of her house in the early evening, they’re both exhausted. Their feet are sore and their backs ache. 

“Sersh,” he turns to look at her, “I don’t know how to thank you for today. This was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.”

“You’re welcome, my friend. Just do me a favor OK? Well, two favors. First, feed me margherita pizza when I come over tomorrow to help you put together outfits for the week.” 

His laugh is deep and light. “Absolutely. What else?” 

Saoirse bites her lip. 

“Promise me you won’t let him hurt you again,” she whispers, her voice cracking.

Armie leans over and wraps his arms tightly around her.

“I promise.” He swallows the lump in his throat.  

* * * *

After blowing up his budding friendship with Armie, Tim managed to avoid detention for the first time in a long while. Instead of stewing in the library on Saturday, he works a full eight hour shift at the café. 

He has a hard time concentrating, though, and given all the mistakes he makes — dropping a tray of macarons on the floor, skimping on the espresso in a cappuccino, using whole milk in a soy latte — he probably should have stayed home. 

His friends try to coax him into going out, but he’s not in the mood to party. Lying on his bed with his arms folded behind his head, he looks up at the ceiling and thinks about the past week. Although he spotted Armie a few times in the halls towering over most of the student body, Tim had avoided coming face to face with him. 

Mostly out of sight had not meant out of mind. 

He’d tried to forget. But reminders kept popping up, goading him into remembering. When he fired up Amazon the omniscient algorithm suggested a slew of Bette Davis movies because he’d watched _All About Eve_. He found a couple of leaves in the rear of his SUV that had been caught in the spokes of Armie’s bike. 

Even worse, his mom had asked about Armie. So had Angela.

And then there’s that fucking roll of film he shot at the park; the one full of portraits of Armie and the selfie he insisted they take. Tim glances over at his desk where the roll has sat all week, taunting him. Picking it up, he turns it over in his hands, sliding his fingertips over the smooth metal casing. 

Now would be a good time to develop it since he has nothing better to do. But if he does, he’ll want to make prints, and the thought of watching Armie’s blue eyes and brilliant smile surface in the lonely, silent gloom of his darkroom is too much. Tim doesn’t have the stomach for it. 

Pushing a hand roughly through his tangled curls, he sets the roll back on the desk and heads downstairs to find something to eat.

* * * *

“He’s at his locker with his band of merry morons,” Saoirse reports breathlessly. 

She had gone ahead to make sure Tim is in his usual spot while Armie remained out of sight on the side of the building facing the teachers’ parking lot.  

His stomach is twisted in knots and his heart is galloping. 

“I don’t think I can go through with this, Sersh. Maybe I should just wait until the second bell when the halls clear, then I definitely won’t see him.” 

She grabs him by the biceps and shakes. “Armie, you can do this. We didn’t spend hours this weekend shopping and planning so you could slink into school like you wish you were invisible. 

“You’re dressed to make a grand entrance,” she scans his outfit, mentally patting herself on the back. “Tim is going to lose his shit when he sees you!” 

Even though she opposes the makeover on principle, Saoirse is positively giddy at the thought of Tim seeing a gorgeous, resplendent, fashion forward Armie and realizing just how badly he fucked up. 

“Now, I think you should ignore him. I guarantee he’ll be staring you down, but you should walk right past without acknowledging him. Because _fuck_ that guy,” she spits, fanning the embers of her week-old rage. 

“Jesus, you’re not helping. Just give me a minute.” 

Armie walks a short distance away so he can breathe. He won’t admit it to Saoirse, but he’s secretly terrified his new appearance won’t make any difference. If Tim doesn’t notice or he sees him and simply looks away, Armie is pretty sure he’ll have to transfer to a new school.

“Armie, come on. We need to go. Listen, everyone is going to be looking at you, not just Tim. So keep your head up, eyes forward. I’ll watch Tim and tell you when he first sees you.” 

She squeezes his shoulders. “You got this.” 

Armie can’t hear anything except his heartbeat pounding in his ears, but he can feel the eyes on him. As soon as they step through the front doors, heads turn. People are staring and whispering. A few students with no home training actually point at him as they move through the halls, the crowd parting in front of them like they’re high school royalty. Or pariahs. 

Finally, he spots Tim up ahead with his back to him, leaning casually against the lockers in the center of his group of friends. Armie tries not to hyperventilate or vomit all over his new clothes. 

Time seems to slow and the chaos and noise swirling around him fades out. If Armie hadn’t thought his life was imitating art before, he certainly does now. 

_How does that that song go from Grease 2? Who’s that guy, where did he come from?_

Noah sees him first. 

“Whoooaaa. Timo, is that the kid from detention? The one who thought he was your new best friend?” 

Tim prays Noah is mistaken. He doesn’t want to face Armie like this, when he’s unprepared and doesn’t have time to get his shit together. He peeks over his shoulder and his breath catches in his throat.

Armie has on black leather boots, tight dark wash jeans that cling to his thick thighs (Tim can imagine how spectacular his ass must look), a white T-shirt under an aubergine v-neck sweater and the black bomber jacket. His freshly buzzed hair is short on the sides and in the back, longer and spiky on top. 

He’s so fucking beautiful and sexy that Tim’s chest aches with longing. He can’t tear his eyes away.

Then he panics, because as much as he appreciates the wardrobe upgrade, he’s not sure he knows this Armie. Is this the same guy who builds robots for fun, loves word games, practices the clarinet for hours and bakes cookies on Saturday nights when his classmates are out getting wasted and hooking up? 

Is he still _his_ Armie? 

As quickly as that question forms in his mind, Tim realizes how fucking ridiculous it is. He relinquished any claim he might have had when, instead of defending Armie, he’d left him twisting in the wind. He wants to find a way back to where they were — laughing, kissing and talking for hours, but he doesn’t know how or where to start. 

Armie isn’t his, but Tim decides he hasn’t changed when he spies the miniature Boggle keychain still dangling from the zipper on his backpack. Armie may look like a sex god now, but his innocence and sweetness remain beneath the glossy new exterior.

“He sees you,” Saoirse mutters between clenched teeth. “Don’t. Look.”  

Armie can’t help himself. As they pass, his eyes lock with Tim’s. An electric current buzzes and crackles between them and Armie tingles all over, the same way he did when they kissed for the first time. But he keeps moving down the hall and the connection snaps. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to PerpetualStorm and jvc808 who predicted that the ugly duckling/makeover trope was coming! And true to the genre, where the "ugly" is usually bad clothes or glasses, our Armie didn't need much help to knock Tim's socks off.
> 
> For those of you who haven't seen it, Grease 2 swaps the gender and the nerdy guy makes himself over into a leather-wearing motorcycle stud to attract the leader of the Pink Ladies (a lovely Michelle Pfeiffer in her first film). It's campy and cheesy with great songs and I absolutely love it!


	7. I'm Coming Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie has a confession to make and Tim gets good advice from a trusted source. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though most of you don't agree with me about Grease 2, I loved reading your comments on the last chapter! Thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts, I truly appreciate all your wonderful feedback. 
> 
> Our primary trope this time appears in every teen movie worth its salt. Our chapter title comes from the amazing Diana Ross. If any of you aren't familiar with the song, I urge you to take a listen. IMO, It has one of the best openings of any song; it always gives me chills! 
> 
> Happy Pride Month!

“So, let me get this straight, no pun intended,” Andy grins around the gingersnap he pops into his mouth. “You’re gay and you had a torrid fling with Timothée Chalamet?” 

“Jesus, it wasn’t a fling! We just hung out a couple of times.” 

Armie drags his hand over his face. School had been a bit of an ordeal. All day, he was torn between friends who alternately praised and questioned his new look and strangers who gawked and gossiped. It had been emotionally draining, but the one person he wanted to talk to had kept his distance. 

Finally home and changed into a comfortable pair of old sweats and a New York Knicks hoodie, he’s spent the better part of the last hour recounting the entire story to Andy, from detention through his celebrated arrival on campus that morning. 

“And _made_ out. With Timothée Chalamet, the guy who rigged the student government vote last year, booed the mayor during her anti-drug speech and made a borderline libelous fake Facebook account for the vice principal during senior prank week, even though he was only a junior,” Andy says, ticking off Tim’s infractions on his fingers. 

Armie rolls his eyes. 

While the vote hacking and mayoral heckling had landed Tim in detention, word around campus was he had almost been expelled over the Facebook stunt, but his parents had called in a favor from the school district superintendent.

“I never said he was perfect,” he mutters, resting his head against the back of the couch. He doesn’t offer anything more, already weary of defending Tim to skeptics. They don’t know him like Armie does, so they can’t understand how he feels about Tim. 

He and Andy have been best friends since elementary school, when they spent countless hours playing board games and Pokemon and discussing the finer points of which Hogwarts house they would belong to if the wizarding world existed. In middle school, their interests diverged somewhat as Armie signed up for band and French, while Andy chose drama and Spanish, supplementing the Mandarin he had studied since he was seven. Still, they remained inseparable.

Although Armie hadn’t wanted to talk about what was going on with Tim at school, Andy had invited himself over to get the full story behind the wardrobe change. He hadn’t anticipated finding out Armie is queer and has a semi-requited crush on the most notorious kid at school. 

“Did you run into each other again after this morning?” 

“No.” 

“And he hasn’t texted you?” 

Fighting the urge to check his phone for the umpteenth time, Armie shakes his head.

“Huh. Well, what are you going to do now? What’s the plan?” 

“Wait, I guess? I don’t know what I expected. It’s not like he was going to run up to me and apologize. That’s not really his style.” 

“He should,” Andy grumbles, snagging another cookie from the plastic tub on the sofa between them.

After the incident with Tim’s friends, only a fool wouldn’t have figured out that Armie’s makeover was for his benefit. And Chalamet may be a lot of things, Andy thinks, but he’s nobody’s fool. He wonders how long it will take him to swallow his pride and come crawling back; not that the guy would have to crawl. Andy’s never known Armie to hold a grudge, so he’d probably forgive the guy in a heartbeat.  

“You’re not mad at me are you?” Armie asks, turning to look at him. 

“For what?”

“Not telling you sooner about liking guys.” 

“Dude, you’re under no obligation to come out at all, to me or anyone else, you know that, right? And if you decide to, there’s no timetable. I’m just glad you feel comfortable enough to tell me.” 

Idly twirling the television remote, he sighs. “I know. I wasn’t really hiding it from you, though. It’s like, deep down I’ve known for a while I wasn’t attracted to girls, but I didn’t fully acknowledge what that meant or how I truly felt. Until I met Tim.” 

“Yeah, I get that. Do your parents know? Or Vic?” 

“No, but I don’t think they’ll be surprised when I tell them. My mom has said a couple of things in the past which made me think she suspects.”

“Are you gonna tell anyone else at school?”

“Our friends, yeah. But I’m not planning to like, make a statement. If this thing with Tim ever happens, people will figure it out because they’ll see us together. I won’t hide, but I’m also not announcing it at assembly, you know?” 

Andy’s phone vibrates loudly on the coffee table. Frowning, he reads a text from their friend Emma. 

“Em says you’re all over Insta…” his voice trails off while he searches a few accounts and popular tags associated with their high school. 

“Holy shit! Dude, girls are freaking out about your new look.” 

Andy slides across the cushions so they can both see the screen while he scrolls through multiple posts of Armie in class, at his locker, in the library and in the halls. Using the tag #glowup, a few posts juxtapose his junior yearbook photo with his current appearance. Each one has dozens of likes and comments saying how hot and totally fuckable he is now.

“If you were into girls looks like you’d have your pick, man.” 

He peers a little closer and asks as casually as he can, “Uh, any guys weigh in?” 

Andy whips his head around and chuckles at Armie’s hopeful expression. “For real? I thought Chalamet was the love of your life. You kicking him to the curb already?” 

“What? I never said anything about love. I’m just curious if other guys might be attracted to me, that’s all.” Armie shrugs one shoulder.

“Uh-huh. Well, it’s kinda hard to tell … god, why do people choose such asinine usernames? But it looks like there might be a couple dudes mixed in with all the thirsty ladies.” 

Squinting, he pokes around a bit.

“Oh here we go! Listen to this, ‘I would top dat ass,’” he whoops. 

“Do you think that’s a typo?” Armie blinks, the picture of blushing, wide-eyed innocence. “He obviously meant to write ‘tap’ right?”

Andy bursts into laughter. “Damn, Armie, you have a lot to learn. I’m pretty sure he’d like to top _and_ tap your ass.” 

When Armie stares at him blankly, Andy decides this isn’t something he can explain without the conversation veering sharply into uncomfortable territory. Instead, he searches Google and hands over his phone, watching with glee as understanding dawns on Armie’s face.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispers, suddenly too warm in his sweatshirt.  

Is he a top or bottom? Is _Tim_ a top or bottom? Even though Armie has seen his fair share of gay porn, he hadn’t given much thought to his preferences since he wasn’t getting any. He knows what he likes to watch, but he’s a little foggy when it comes to what he’d like to do. 

Slack-jawed, he falls headlong down a rabbit hole, following links to a succession of increasingly NSFW webpages. Based on his vivid fantasies, Armie thinks he might be a bottom with a mild submissive streak and a … praise kink? He didn’t even know that was a thing. And the way Tim took control that day in the park — pinning and groping him against the car — seems to qualify as Grade A top behavior.   

Andy munches his way through the rest of the cookies while Armie speed reads. Accustomed to treating Armie’s house like his second home, he ventures into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of milk and rummage through the cabinets for a salty snack to balance out all the sugar he consumed. 

After nearly fifteen minutes of silence, he tosses a throw pillow at Armie’s chest. “Hey, I’m still here! Do the rest of your sex research on your own time.”

“Sorry.” Smiling sheepishly, he makes a mental note of the URL, closes out of the browser and sets the phone facedown on the couch.

Although Andy is happy his best friend has come to terms with his sexuality, he’s not thrilled about his infatuation with Chalamet, who is known to screw ‘em and leave ‘em. Even though he worries this may end in heartbreak, he’s not going to let Armie go through his first serious same-sex crush alone. Apparently, he has another powerful ally.

“Anyway, I _am_ kinda pissed you didn’t invite me along on the epic shopping spree. Tell me more about Saoirse, she sounds like a badass.” 

“Dude,” Armie laughs, “you have no idea.” 

* * * *

Over the next couple of days, Armie dodges advances ranging from the subtle — invitations to join study groups and jockeying to partner with him on a computer science class project; to the brazen — offers for lunchtime hand jobs and back seat head. To his dismay, Tim remains conspicuously and frustratingly silent. 

On Thursday afternoon, Armie is exchanging his AP Government book for the physics text when a familiar face pops up at his side. 

“Hi, Armie.” 

“Liz, hey. How are you?” Since detention, they had greeted each other in passing, but hadn’t really talked, so he’s surprised to see her. 

“I’m good, thanks. I’ve been meaning to tell you that I love your new look.” She admires his caramel suede jacket and the snug fit of his black jeans. “Why the change?” 

“I just wanted to try something new I guess. I’d been wearing the same stuff since, like, middle school. Not the same clothes,” he clarifies quickly, “just the same basic style.” 

Amid the cacophony of kids laughing, shouting and rushing to their next classes, a group of popular girls passes. A cute brunette cocks an eyebrow and smirks knowingly at Liz, who acknowledges her with a nod. 

“I get it. Everyone could use an image update now and then,” she smiles, settling with her back against the lockers. “In case you haven’t heard, the female half of the student body is desperate to know if you’re single.” 

He doesn’t take the bait. 

“Really?” Armie’s not sure what she’s angling for, but figures playing dumb will be the fastest way to get her to show her hand.

“Yep. In fact, one of my best friends is wondering if you have a date for homecoming.” Twirling the end of her ponytail with her manicured fingers, Liz gazes up at him through her eyelashes. 

Armie recalls Tim giving him the same nakedly seductive look in the library and what came after. He wonders what Liz would think if she knew her version has no effect on him whatsoever. He clears his throat. 

“Um, no I don’t. Actually, I wasn’t planning to go.” 

“Why not?” 

“I’m not much of a dancer,” he explains, zipping his backpack and slamming the locker shut. He slings the heavy bag over his shoulder and hopes Liz takes the hint. The warning bell rings. 

“Mia is a very sweet, pretty girl. So if you change your mind, let me know.” 

“Will do,” he calls out, moving briskly down the hall. 

* * * *

Tim hears the ugly rumors:

  * a cheerleader blew Armie under the football bleachers; 
  * he got sloppy drunk at somebody’s house after school and made out with three chicks;
  * he’s collecting potential homecoming dates like baseball cards, stringing them along until he figures out which girl is most likely to give it up after the dance. 



Of course, it’s total bullshit. Even if Armie liked girls, Tim’s certain he would never be that guy. Still, he’s pissed people are making shit up and sullying Armie’s reputation, especially since they gave zero fucks about him a week ago. 

Even though they aren’t speaking,Tim shuts down the lies as firmly as he can when he hears someone repeat them, which raises some eyebrows on campus. He’s been grist for the high school rumor mill often enough to know the drill and he wants to spare Armie the same fate. He doesn’t deserve it.

Still, the week drags on and Tim doesn’t text, he doesn’t call. 

Angry with himself, Tim lashes out. Mouthing off while the chemistry teacher is reviewing safety procedures for an experiment gets him sent back to detention, predictably ending his streak of free Saturdays at one. Miserable, he spends the entire day thinking about the last time he was there with Armie.

At first, he was so ashamed of his behavior he couldn’t bring himself to reach out, not even to apologize. He’s supposed to be the one who doesn’t give a fuck what people think of him. How had Armie described him? Self-confident and true to himself. How wrong he was. 

Playing the resident bad boy is easy when he’s rebelling against authority. That doesn’t cost him anything, at least not anything he’s unwilling to pay. Standing up to his friends and risking their disapproval or, even worse, derision is the true test of character and Tim knows he failed. 

Now, so much time has gone by that he doesn’t know how to start the conversation, nor does he know what he wants to say. The one thing he’s sure of is that he misses Armie, but that makes no fucking sense because they barely know each other. Yet, here he is for a second consecutive Saturday night moping at home like a goddamn lovesick girl. 

 **Timmy:** hey can you talk? 

 **Pauli:** hi Pauline, how are you? how’s school? 

 **Timmy:** haha how are you? 

 **Pauli:** i’m good, T! let me guess, girl or boy problems? 

He smirks. His sister knows him too well. 

 **Timmy:** boy 

 **Pauli:** what’d you do? 

 **Timmy:** hey! how do you know it’s my fault? 

 **Pauli:** 🙄

 **Timmy:** ok, yeah. i fucked up. 

He gives her the abridged, but unvarnished version, leaving nothing out.  

 **Pauli:** and you haven’t talked since you ran away? 

He cringes. 

 **Timmy:** no

 **Pauli:** you know the new clothes are for you, right?

 **Timmy:** yeah 

 **Pauli:** he’s trying T. meet him half way. apologize, talk!

 **Pauli:** he sounds pretty great. un-fuck this baby bro

 **Timmy:** un-fuck? srsly pauli

 **Pauli:** yep. you like him a lot it seems. so fix it. 

 **Timmy:** i do. thx 

 **Pauli:** anytime 😊

Tim decides he has to try to make things right. 

* * * *

When his phone lights up, Armie slips an embossed leather bookmark inside the paperback copy of _Ulysses_ and sets the book aside.

He reads the brief text, his lips curving up into a small smile. Reclining on the bed, he quickly taps out a reply, deleting and retyping characters when his broad thumbs land on the wrong letter. 

Biting his lip, he awaits a response. When it arrives, he releases a surprised bark of laughter.

****

Tim loves the frenetic energy and sensory overload of a house party. 

The thumping bass, the heady blend of tobacco and weed smoke, the sweet-sour musk of adolescent bodies bumping and grinding against each other on the makeshift dance floor and up against the walls. It’s too loud, too hot and dimly lit. It’s perfect. 

Surveying the space, he thinks Noah was right, the Sanchez twins throw one hell of a party. There are kids everywhere — wrapped around each other on the sofas, gathered around the dining table for a raucous round of beer pong, sneaking upstairs to fuck in an empty bedroom, bathroom or walk-in closet. 

_I come in this bitch and I’m so fuckin’ ready/Ride on that dick like I’m Cardi Andretti_

He’s not sentimental, still, moving through the room Tim thinks how this is his final homecoming after party. Although he’ll probably be enrolled in the community college next fall, he has no intention of hanging out with high school kids after graduation. Cosplaying _Dazed and Confused_ is not in the fucking cards. No, this is it and so far, it seems like a fitting end. 

On his way back out to the patio, Tim bypasses the platters of sliders and sub sandwiches, pizzas and bowls of chips set out on the kitchen island, to snag a couple beers from a plastic tub full of ice. A few kids are splashing around in the pool and the reflection of the soft white lights rippling across the surface gives the whole scene a dreamy, underwater vibe. 

Stretching out on a chaise next to Marcus, he accepts a joint from Noah and takes a deep drag. 

“OK, so look, Timo. Settle this argument. Who was the best Batman, Keaton or Bale?” Mike asks. 

He cracks open his IPA and swallows a chilly mouthful of the golden liquid. “Bale, hands down.” 

“That’s what I said!” Marcus exclaims. 

Noah’s not having that. “Hold up, my man Keaton fucking defined the role. He played it stoic and tightly wound with barely controlled rage.”

“True,” Tim concedes. “But Bale redefined it. He fucking inhabited Bruce Wayne’s tortured angst and vulnerability.” 

“Oh, come on man. That fucking voice Bale used? Like he gargled broken glass and smoked a pack a day for thirty years. That shit was overkill. Like, we get it. You’ve suffered,” Noah waves his hand dismissively.

“Dude, you clearly don’t know shit about acting. The voice was an artistic choice.” He motions to Marcus for the spliff. 

“OK, I think we can all agree Kilmer was the worst, right?” Mike interjects before the disagreement escalates.  

“Fuck yeah.” 

“No doubt.” 

“He sucked ass.” 

“And Clooney was the sexiest,” Tim smirks. 

There’s a brief pause, then they shout in unison, “Bat-nips!” and collapse into a fit of giggles. 

“Hey, what’s up? Do you guys have a lighter?” 

Looking up, Tim recognizes one of the two girls in ripped skinny jeans. He and Olivia screwed around junior year and lately she’s been trying to work her way back into his bed, but Tim doesn’t double-dip his dick. When he’s done with a partner, he moves the fuck on without looking back. No regrets, no do-overs. He’s not in the mood for her flirting, so he heads back inside for more beers. 

Entering the house through the open French doors, Tim stops short when he sees Armie across the room. Even in profile, he’s achingly beautiful. 

He’s perusing the titles in the built-in bookcase, trailing his long fingers over the colorful spines. In a house reeking of debauchery, where the very air is thick with sin, of course Armie Hammer is drawn to books. Shaking his head, Tim chuckles.

He’s surprised to see him, he’s never been at one of these parties before; at least he never noticed him. Armie pulls a book from the shelf and flips open the cover to read the inside flap. Tim is psyching himself up to approach him when Jason appears and hands Armie a red Solo cup. Sipping from his own cup, Jason slips an arm around Armie's waist and pulls him close. 

Armie smiles and says something Tim can’t make out, his words swallowed by the distance and the music. He doesn’t need to hear to understand perfectly what happens next. Jason leans in and kisses Armie on the cheek.

Bile rises in Tim's throat and his heart clenches. 

_Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this wasn't too much of a sucker punch. But, as I told a few of you, karma is a real bitch and it's not done with Tim. You snooze, you lose! We rolled two tropes into this one -- the epic house party and the love triangle with the bad boy and (as far as we know) the good boy. In retrospect, naming Armie's best friend Andy was a mistake, the names are too similar. But I'm stuck with it, sorry! 
> 
> The song lyric is from "Press" by Cardi B.


	8. Oh L'Amour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim digs himself a deep hole and Armie may finally have reached his limit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay! First, I forced myself to complete the chapter of my other fic that I'd been stalled on for months before I worked on this and when I came back to it, I kind of changed the direction I had been heading. A few of you wanted Tim to suffer a bit more and well, he continues to make bad choices. 
> 
> Our chapter title comes from Erasure. Thanks to isitandwonder for reminding me of this song, which is one of my 80s faves. As always, thank you all so much for reading, leaving me wonderful comments that crack me up and dropping kudos! I appreciate your support. 
> 
> We pick up at the house party.

“Are you fucking him?” Tim growls. 

“Excuse me?” 

“You heard me.” 

“That’s literally, none of your business.” 

Tim steps closer, nostrils flaring and head cocked to one side. “And yet, you’re gonna tell me.” 

“You broke up with me,” Jason hisses, eyes narrowed. “You don’t get to ask if I’ve moved on with someone else.” 

“See, that was always the problem with you, Jay,” Tim’s voice is icy. “We didn’t ‘break up’ because we weren’t in a relationship. It was just sex.” 

Jason recoils. “Then why do you care about what’s going on between me and Armie?”

“Don’t worry about it. Just answer the fucking question.”

“Screw you, Timmy.” 

He moves to walk away, but Tim blocks his path.  

“No, thanks. Been there, done that. But it sure didn’t take you long to sink your claws into him did it?” he sneers. “Where the fuck were you three weeks ago dude, when Armie was just some nerd in dad pants who runs the physics club? You weren’t taking him to parties and slobbering all over him then were you?” 

Jason stares at the muscle twitching in his clenched jaw and realizes with a jolt that Tim isn’t pissed that _he’s_ with someone new, he’s pissed Armie is with _him_. 

“Were you hooking up with Armie when we were …” he searches for the right words and settles on the least awkward euphemism he can come up with, “hanging out? You told me you weren’t dealing with anyone else.” 

Jason is indignant and barreling toward anger. They always used protection, or course, but he wouldn’t have been down for anything if he’d known Tim was screwing other people. Call him old-fashioned, but Jason believes in monogamy even if the relationship is purely physical, which apparently his thing with Tim was, though he had believed, or at least hoped, it had been more. 

Tim has the decency to look embarrassed.

“That was the truth.” 

He runs a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. “Look, Armie is … a friend and people have been talking shit about him lately. I’m not saying you have,” he adds hastily when Jason starts to protest. “I just don’t want to see him get hurt.” 

Given the aggressive way Tim approached him, Jason isn’t buying this uncharacteristic display of altruism.

“Yeah, well if that’s true, you can ask him yourself,” he says, crossing his long arms over his chest and tipping his chin up. 

“Tim?”

_Shit._

**_A little over a week earlier_ **

“Hey.” Emma slides into the desk in front of Armie, drapes her purse over the back of the chair and drops her backpack with a thud at her feet. 

Shooting a glance up at the wall clock above the whiteboard she turns in her seat and grins. “You are never gonna believe what happened last period in Spanish,” she whispers, looking around to make sure no one is eavesdropping.  

Expecting another one of her hilarious stories about their classmates’ foibles, Armie eagerly leans forward. 

“You know Jason Warren? The basketball player?” 

Jason is only an inch or two shorter than he is, pretty amber eyes, wavy golden-brown hair, lean athlete’s physique. Yeah, Armie knows who he is. 

“He asked about you.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Emma tosses her ebony locs over her shoulder and shifts a little closer. 

“He comes over to me before class starts and says, ‘Hey, aren’t you friends with Armie Hammer?’ And I’m immediately suspicious because we don’t really talk, right? I mean, we’re cordial in class and say hey in the halls, but it’s not like we’re tight. So, I’m like ‘Yeah,’” she pushes her cobalt blue glasses up on the bridge of her nose. “And he says, ‘Is he dating anyone?’” 

“What the fuck?!” 

“I know, right? Look, you know me, I’m not about to put your business in the street. Especially not with all these bullshit rumors people are spreading about you. I asked him why he wanted to know and he said because he was thinking about asking you out!” 

“What?” he sputters, shaking his head. “It must be a joke, Em. There’s no way Jason Warren is,” he lowers his voice, “gay. Nope.”  

“I don’t know, Armie. He seemed pretty sincere. And I know I said I don’t know him that well, but I really don’t think he’s a typical asshole jock who would pull a prank like this.” 

He’s deeply skeptical. “Well, what did you say?” 

“I for sure wasn’t going to out you, so I didn’t want to say anything that might give him the idea you might be open to it, you know? But I also didn’t want to shut down the possibility,” she swivels to check the clock again, grimacing because the bell is about to ring. “I told him I wasn’t sure if you were seeing anyone or if you’d even be interested, but I’d pass the message along.”

Armie stares at her, dumbstruck. _Jason Warren? No. Fucking. Way._

The clanging starts and a couple of kids slip in just before their teacher closes the door. 

“Look, you don’t have to make a decision right now. Take your time and think about it. I have a feeling he’ll be patient.” 

* * * *

Armie clears his throat. 

“So, something unexpected happened today.” 

“Yeah, did Tim finally pull his head out of his ass?” Saoirse snorts without looking up from the calculus problem she’s carefully copying into a college-ruled notebook. 

The friends are working their way through their homework at her house. A bowl of popcorn, a half-eaten bag of pistachios, textbooks and writing implements are scattered between them across the breakfast nook table. 

“No,” he grumbles, peering into his mug before gulping down the last mouthful of peppermint tea. “Nothing to report on that front, unfortunately. But, um, I guess Jason Warren, you know he’s on the varsity basketball team, is kinda interested? In me?” 

Her head snaps up. “Say what now?” 

Under her intense gaze, Armie shifts uncomfortably on the wooden chair. “Yeah, he, uh, asked Em if I’m dating anyone.” 

“Wait, hold on. Start at the beginning.” 

Armie relates the story, still not quite sure he believes it.

“And what did you tell her to tell him?”

“Nothing.” 

Saoirse huffs in disbelief. 

“Nothing yet! I told Em I needed to think about it,” he shrugs. 

“Seriously? What’s there to think about Armie? You’re single. A super hot guy wants to take you out. Say yes.” 

“Technically, I’m single but —”

Saoirse holds up her hand. “Aaannnd I’m gonna stop you right there before you say something that pisses me off. You’re under no obligation to wait around until Tim gets his shit together, assuming he ever will. You don’t owe him anything, Armie.” 

Sighing, he shakes his head. “Sersh, you don’t understand. I know I don’t owe Tim, but I do want to see if the connection we had —” scoffing, she rolls her eyes but Armie plows on undeterred, “if we could actually work, you know? He fucked up, _is_ fucking up. Royally. I get it, I do. But I haven’t given up on him. Not yet.” 

Frowning, Saoirse taps out a staccato beat against her math book with a pencil eraser.

“OK,” she points the sharpened end at Armie. “But that doesn’t mean you have to put your life on hold. I don’t know much about this Jason kid except that he must be pretty smart since he always makes honor roll. So why not talk to him at least and see if you have anything in common? You like basketball, maybe he’s a fan of that British baking show you love so much.” 

“Doubtful.” 

“Yeah well, you thought he was straight too, so maybe let’s not make heteronormative gender assumptions about people we don’t know, ‘kay?” 

Armie glares at her, but he knows she’s right. 

“Besides,” Saoirse continues. “If you hit it off and word gets back to Tim —” 

“I’m not gonna use Jason to make Tim jealous. That’s so not cool.” 

“Not what I’m suggesting. That shit only works in stupid romcoms anyway.” 

She pries open a pistachio, pops the plump nut in her mouth, sucks the salt from her fingertips and drops the shell in an ochre ceramic dish. 

“But if you and Jason go on a date and Tim hears about it and finally gets off his ass and fucking does something, where’s the harm in that? And you never know, you might end up liking Jason more anyway.” 

Although Armie thinks that’s highly unlikely, he can’t deny her logic. There’s no good reason why he shouldn’t at least talk to Jason. 

“Maybe you’re right,” he says. 

Over the next few days, Emma stalls while Armie mulls his options and waits in vain for Tim to speak. He catches sight of his tousled halo of chestnut curls on campus a couple of times, but their paths never cross and his phone remains frustratingly silent. 

On Friday, he gives her the green light. Jason texts that night. 

 **Jason:** Armie, hi this is Jason. Emma gave me ur number? 

Armie hadn’t expected to hear from him so soon. Panicking, he takes a deep breath.

 **Armie:** hi, yes she told me. how are u? 

 **Jason:** good! just got home from the game a while ago. what are u up to?

Chewing his lip, Armie wonders if he should admit what he was doing. He glances at the clarinet resting on his bed and decides he won’t lie. If Jason thinks he’s not cool because he plays an instrument, then Armie can bail now without wasting his time. 

 **Armie:** just practicing my clarinet

He anxiously watches the screen, bracing for disappointment. 

 **Jason:** oh yeah ur in the orchestra! 1st chair right? 

Stunned, Armie blinks, staring at the text. It takes him almost an entire minute to reply. 

 **Armie:** yeah 

 **Jason:** my sister Gianna plays violin so I go to all the concerts 

 **Armie:** Gigi is ur sister? 

 **Jason:** yep 

 **Armie:** wow small world

 **Jason:** I didn’t see u at the game 

Armie is caught off guard for a second time. 

 **Armie:** yeah, I usually go with my friend Andy, but he had a family thing  

 **Jason:** got it

 **Armie:** did u guys win? 

 **Jason:** 68-42 😉

 **Armie:** nice! 👍

A flurry of flirty, funny texts over several days soon leads to phone conversations that stretch late into the night. Armie is pleasantly surprised to find Jason is smart, easy to talk to and open minded. If he sometimes seems to be coming on a little strong, Armie chalks it up to enthusiasm and basks in the attention. 

He doesn’t compare Jason to Tim. At least, he tries really hard not to do so.

**_Back at the party_ **

“Tim?” 

He had lurked on the opposite side of the room, waiting for an opportunity to confront Jason alone precisely so he could avoid talking to Armie. 

 _Best laid fucking plans._  

Tim steels himself and turns around, a sickly grin plastered on his face.  

“Armie, hey. I didn’t expect to see you here. Not really your scene is it?”

“Yeah, not really. But Jason,” he smiles at the boy moving to stand beside him, “invited me and I figured this might be my last chance to see how the other half parties before we graduate.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

Tim needs something to do with his hands so he won’t ball them into fists. He makes a show of searching his pockets until he pulls out his vape pen. Exhaling a cloud of vapor through pursed lips, Tim takes in Armie’s slim grey chinos and fitted denim shirt, the sleeves rolled up nearly to his elbows.

“This a date?” he asks, waving his hand between them. 

“Yes.” 

“No,” Armie replies quickly, blushing under the weight of Jason’s stare. “I mean, not really? We’re just —”

“Hanging out?” Tim interjects. “Yeah, we used to hang out, too, didn’t we Jay?” 

Picking up on Tim’s suggestive tone, Armie looks from him to Jason, whose expression is murderous. 

“Oh my god,” Armie croaks. "You’re the basketball player.” 

“Quick on the fucking uptake aren’t you, Hammer? Can’t put one over on you. How long has this been going on, hmm? I mean, Jay is a good lay, don’t get me wrong, but he’s clingy as fuck. But maybe that’s what you want?"

Hurt and anger flash in his green eyes. “In my experience, virgins do tend to fall hard and fast.” 

Tim’s heart is racing and he is aware that he should shut the fuck up before he says something he regrets. Something he can’t take back. But adrenaline is pumping through his veins like venom and he can’t stanch the flow of ugly words pouring from his mouth.

“Or maybe you’re not a virgin anymore? You already fucking him?” Tim laughs bitterly.  “You do move fast, Jay. Armie had me fooled with the whole wide-eyed innocent act, not gonna lie. I guess the joke’s on me.”

The accusation lands like a sucker punch to the solar plexus, forcing the air from Armie’s lungs. Tim expects shouting and a torrent of blistering rage. When Armie responds instead with cold detachment, Tim realizes he’s played this all wrong. Suddenly feeling lightheaded from all the beer and weed he’s consumed on a mostly empty stomach, he sways on his feet. 

“Fuck you, Tim.”

Armie wishes he had time to search for a coaster or a napkin, but the stifling heat and nauseating smells are pressing in on him and he has to get out of this house before he suffocates. He wipes the damp bottom of the plastic cup on the hem of his shirt and carefully sets it down on the bookshelf. 

“Jason, will you take me home?”

Moving toward the front door Armie doesn’t spare Tim a glance. 

“I knew you were an asshole, Timmy, but Jesus Christ, how could you do that?!” Jason snarls, close enough that spittle lands on Tim’s ashen face. 

“Not that we owe you a goddamn explanation, and you probably can’t understand this, but some people are actually interested in more than just a quick fuck.” 

Jason pushes past Tim, knocking him back against the wall.

Sinking to the floor, he closes his eyes and cradles his throbbing head in his hands. 

* * * *

They ride in silence. When they reach Armie’s house, Jason pulls over to the curb and kills the engine. 

“Armie, I’m sorry.” 

“Not your fault,” he says robotically. 

“I should have told you about me and Timmy.” 

Staring straight ahead through the windshield, Armie shakes his head. “You had no reason to. You didn’t know about,” he swallows thickly, “us.” 

Jason wants to ask about the nature of their relationship, but he knows this isn’t the right time. 

“Thanks for the ride,” Armie murmurs, opening the car door. 

“No problem. Listen, can I call you? Maybe tomorrow if you feel up to talking?” 

“I’d rather you didn’t. I need some time to think, if that's OK?” 

“Sure. I understand.” 

“Good night, Jason,” he firmly closes the door and strides up the brick walk without looking back.  

He’s changed into pajamas and staring at the ceiling when his phone rings. Startled, his heart slams in his chest thinking maybe Vic is in trouble somewhere, but Tim’s name is displayed on the screen. Armie turns off the ringer and tosses the phone across the bed. 

* * * *

Tim is pacing in his bedroom. Even though he didn’t really expect Armie to answer, when the call rolls over to voicemail he swears loudly, disrupting the quiet stillness in the house.

 **Tim:** Armie i’m so sorry

 **Tim:**  i shouldn’t have said that stuff about you hooking up with Jay 

 **Tim:** guess i kinda lost it when i saw you guys together

 **Tim:** jesus, i’m a fucking idiot i’m sorry

Seated on the bed, he leans back against the headboard and draws his knees up to his chest. 

 **Tim:** also i know i’ve been a total dick the past couple weeks

 **Tim:** i didn’t know what to say

 **Tim:** no excuse for what i did that day in the hall with my friends

 **Tim:** sorry about that too

 **Tim:** if we could just talk, i can explain everything

 **Tim:** please Armie

Gazing out at the inky blackness beyond the window, Tim can just make out a sliver of ivory moon above the treetops. But mostly, he sees his reflection staring back at him — a skinny kid with sad eyes in baggy black sweats and a faded New York Knicks T-shirt. Gripping the phone, he taps it against his thigh. He cringes thinking about all the awful behavior he has to atone for, knowing there’s only one thing left to say. The one thing that, if he’s lucky, might actually make a difference. 

 **Tim:** i miss you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I haven't made Tim irredeemable in your eyes! In his defense, he's emotionally immature and dealing poorly with unfamiliar, overwhelming feelings. 
> 
> OK, so this chapter didn't have a distinct trope, since I just wanted Tim to lose his cool. In the next chapter, though, we will get to the biggest teen movie/romcom trope of them all! 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me and these two lovable idiots!

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks for reading!


End file.
